Duranium Angel
by AP Stacey
Summary: The Calavene Games & Theory are contested by dozens of species from across the Delta Quadrant, in hundreds of tests of mental and physical ability. This year B'Elanna, Seven and a small ship named Voyager will represent the United Federation of Planets.
1. Chapter I : Healthy Competition

_DURANIUM ANGEL …_

_Pairing : B'Elanna Torres / Seven of Nine_

_Rating : Mature (M)_

_Feedback : I took the time to write this, so give me the courtesy of writing back. :)_

_Author's Notes : This story was started as a response to the "Olympic" Challenge issued on Voq Je Bang. It was completed approximately two years after the Beijing Olympics it was supposed to have been finished for ... Whoops. ;)_

* * *

_Chapter I : A little healthy competition ..._

* * *

Running a gnarled hand across his forehead, over the dark green tribal tattoo that acted as a precious link between the 24th Century and a people lost to time and space, Chakotay narrowed his eyes as he tried to understand the isometric diagram rotating on the expansive screen dominating Astrometrics. Standing alongside, the Captain of the Federation starship Voyager wore a no-less perplexed look at the unusual craft that had been magnified and broken into its constituent parts by the Computer.

An enormous tritanium disc, with a diameter of some four thousand metres - nine times the length of the intrepid class starship - span slowly in the depths of the black between the stars. An immense protective dome rose upwards and downwards on its ventral and dorsal sides respectively; structural supports arranged like the arms of an eight-point star, splayed outwards from a central point on each dome to anchor to the disc. It sported an appearance more suitable at a glance to one of the "Flying Saucers" from the infamous Doctor Chaotica holodeck programs.

Passing to starboard via a connecting umbilical arm, a smaller circular disc housed sufficient docking arms and landing bays to accommodate a fleet of visiting starships of many different sizes and shapes. Sensors constantly recorded vessels in the process of docking and navigating towards the station, revealing a number of races the Voyager had encountered on its journey through the uncharted expanse of the Delta Quadrant; Sumar, Malon, B'omar, Hirogen, Krenim and dozens of others.

"It's a space park," Chakotay said aloud finally, his head nodding almost imperceptibly. Receiving an inquiring gaze from his captain the broad man's fingers tapped at the LCARS console to the left. "It's a catch-all term for a type of ship that mimicked planetary surfaces and environments to incredible degrees of realism and accuracy - originally for the purpose of ferrying the wealthy across the Galaxy in comfort and luxury. Usually whilst they treaded bare-foot in Katarian mood-grass, or swung between Pineapple trees and gazed out at Alpha Centauri or the Denobulan Nebula through the variable-filter dome."

An accompanying image of a similar, but far smaller vessel appeared in the bottom-left corner of the main Astrometrics display bearing the mark of the United Earth Space Probe Agency – the department which later gave birth to Starfleet. "When the first holodecks came on-line, Space Parks quickly fell out of fashion with the wealthy - passengers and owners alike. After all who'd pay to upkeep a tropical garden, or a mountain tundra on warp engines when a holodeck could be fitted to an existing ship for a fraction of the cost?"

"They ended up being used as cheap alternatives to custom-built hydroponics ships and a few were still plying the space lanes, as flying hotels for the eccentric billionaires who didn't trust photons and force fields to give them a "real" good time. I spent six months working as a waiter on a Space Park owned by a couple of Ferengi; Cloud Nine I think …"

"As fascinating a lesson in your misspent youth as that was, Commander," Kathryn teased with a slight smile, "I'd still like to know a little more about this particular "Space Park". Seems awfully popular with a lot of races … Some old friends and enemies no less. Set a course and send a standard greeting."

Absent-mindedly pressing the soles of her boots against the ship's decking, Janeway sighed wistfully. "If nothing else I wouldn't mind feeling some real grass beneath my feet."

…

* * *

…

Pushing the gel-pack back into place amongst the connectors of the junction, B'Elanna Torres nodded to nobody in-particular and with satisfaction, as the slight whine of synthetic neurons firing and data exchanging gave her proof enough the repair had been successful. Snatching up the PADD displaying the daily repair schedule, the Chief Engineer was able to cross another item from the list of never-ending minor maintenance, not required but desirable to keep the compact starship in the very best working order.

Securing the maintenance cover back in place and crawling from the cramped Jefferies Tube out into the open plan of Main Engineering, the hybrid took the moment of peace granted to her for a deep breath before one of the numerous engineers on duty spied their superior, with an apparent moment of free time. Duly assailing her with all manner of requests, updates and developing situations regarding: EPS conduits, ODN lines, Sonic Showers and Neelix's triggering of the Fire Suppression System on deck two for the fifth time in as many days.

"Lieutenant," Vorik greeted dispassionately as the first of the junior officers to accost her. "Have you decided whether you will be participating in the team that Voyager will be entering in the Calavene Supremacy Games & Theory?"

B'Elanna stifled a sigh, "I haven't the slightest clue what you're talking about Ensign." As an engineer foremost and a Senior Officer the time she did not spend in Main Engineering and sleeping was spent glancing at technical schematics between snatched meals and receiving complaints from every other department regarding failures and upgrades. "You're not talking about that floating can we passed a few days ago, are you?"

"We are preparing to dock the ship with the structure," The Vulcan replied with a raised eyebrow in as obvious a state of surprise as he was willing to enter into. "The station is the focal point for three days of intense physical and mental competition between many races to determine the greatest of their number - it should prove to be a stimulating method of spending our shore leave."

B'Elanna rubbed a dirty hand against her ridged brow, letting the sigh run free. There were times when her focus on the Voyager's myriad technical problems and snatching what little rest she could become so entrancing, that the Klingon would find entire weeks rolling by without so much as realising a change in the stardate. Apparently, despite attending two Senior Staff briefings in as many days, Torres had still managed not to pick up a single conversation that had made these events obvious to her.

"I'm not sure I'm keen on wrestling a Hirogen in a pit of Plasma Coolant," She replied sarcastically. In truth whilst a part of her delighted in the opportunity to work out the stress and strains of life in a more grandiose setting than the holodeck, B'Elanna reasoned there was simply too much to do on the ship that would allow her to gallivant off amusing herself. Shore leave or not.

The Ensign shook his head slightly. "The Games are not simply about brute force in alien environments Lieutenant - Each team undergoes a rigorous number of challenges against other teams that test dexterity, adaptability, strength, versatility and many other traits. In addition every participating vessel submits its historical and sociological databases from which native sports or challenges are extracted and added to the Games. In that way all participants will be given the opportunity to compete in something familiar to them."

"Who's on our team?"

"I am glad you have reconsidered," Vorik replied in a tone that did not truly suggest he was experiencing gladness, or any other emotional response. "Apart from myself the ship's other representative is Commander Tuvok. I am open to additional suggestions."

If Vulcans were prone to allow their emotions to the fore, then Vorik might well have felt a little unease at the toothy grin spreading across the caramel features of the Chief of Engineering. Brown eyes disassociated from their surroundings for a moment, as if considering something. "It's for the good of the ship, and the name of the Federation and the Empire, right?"

B'Elanna's smile took an on an altogether more mischievous quality. "I've got one or two ideas …"

…

* * *

…

Although the cobalt gaze did not move from the molecular analysis under way on the console screen, the tone of the response left precious little room for negotiation. "I will not comply."

B'Elanna huffed and blew a lock of raven hair from in front of her eyes, hands on hips and a most indignant look passing over her scrunched-up features. Although she lacked the internal chronometer that allowed the blonde beside her to track time to the second, the Klingon guessed she'd spent fully thirty minutes in Astrometrics and another fifteen in the Cargo Bay. Desperately spent trying to persuade Seven of Nine that it'd be in the interests of her collective to help Team Voyager kick twenty species' worth of ass. Her efforts had not brought much success.

"I have fourteen sub-molecular resonance images of a class four nebula to analyse Lieutenant," the taller woman began by way of explanation. "Once I have completed the analysis I have already offered my assistance to Lieutenant Carey and the engineering team refitting the aft torpedo launcher which will occupy the entirety of the Shore Leave allocated to me. Recreation is an irrelevant distraction."

"It's a vital tool for blowing off steam!" B'Elanna retorted in frustration. "You might think I'm ill-tempered and prone to arguing but if it weren't for the mental challenges of my job and the occasional holodeck battle program, I'd probably have killed by now. I need this – I need to compete and I only compete to win which I think will be that much harder without you. Quite frankly we need the help."

Seven's blue eyes broke from the console display to fix themselves on the diminutive engineer. "You need me?"

The ramrod-straight posture and aloofness were unchanged but B'Elanna had spent many years, as a necessity in the Maquis, learning to become a good reader of the subtle hints a person gave to indicate their mood and feelings. The slight softening of the taut jaw line and the narrowing of the eyes betrayed Seven's interest in the personal nature of the Klingon's request. This could be exploited – for the good of the ship no less.

"You're probably the strongest and most intelligent person on this ship," B'Elanna began evenly and carefully so as not to sound unnecessarily buttery. "I'm asking you personally to help – Please join my team, Seven."

A silvery implant rose as one with a brow, "Your team? I was under the impression Ensign Vorik had put forward the suggestion to form a team."

"The Vulcan helped," Torres muttered flippantly, "But I'm the team captain – I've got the passion and the drive. You, Vorik and Tuvok are my muscle. One of these Calavene will be holding a meeting in the Mess Hall later tonight to explain the finer points of the Games & Theory. If all goes well, I want to begin our physical training tomorrow morning – Can I count you in?"

Never above bending others' preconceptions of her, B'Elanna's lips parted in a brilliant smile that seemed to overpower the hesitation still on the face of the blondewho acquiesced almost immediately, and with little attempt to defend her position. "I will comply Lieutenant."

"How about Captain?" The Engineer suggested with her most serious face. The disbelieving look in reply reminded the Klingon her wiles and people-skills would only stretch disbelief so far. "I'll settle for B'Elanna then – deck two, nineteen hundred hours!"

…

* * *

…

The Calavene as a race were broadly humanoid in the vaguest sense - standing on average some seven feet in height and sporting elongated forearms, legs seemingly tapering to thin joints that supported the entirety of their slight weight. While there were both female and male, the only true way to tell the two sexes apart was the shock of electric-blue hair that cascaded over the shoulders of the former and the complete baldness of the latter.

Their faces were devoid of any unique features that allowed foreigners to tell one Calavene from another individually - depressions in the sides of the head where ears might be in humans and two entirely black orbs for eyes were the only two distinguishing facial marks. Their flesh, where exposed under a flawless white one-piece tunic, was a pale blue that created a stunning contrast against the predominant grey and silver of the Voyager's superstructure.

"I thank your Captain for her hospitality," The ethereal voice sang softly, with the slightest metallic buzz courtesy of the translation collar worn around the neck which translated the melodic harmonies of the Calavene native tongue into Federation Standard English. "I would also like to thank your ship's crew for supporting the Calavene Games & Theory and those of you that will be entering to represent your Federation, Empires, Alliances and Peoples."

The Calavene folded her lithe arms together upon her lap. "I have been told of your story and your journey to home – It is regretful we have nothing to assist you in such a noble endeavour, save the chance to bring your own talents and skills to a stage that will record your names and commit you to the history and pride of what you call the Delta Quadrant. I have received a final list of those who will form your team, headed by the Captain, B'Elanna Torres of Engineering."

The Vulcan contingent of the Federation team exchanged raised eyebrows whilst the assembled crew traded frowns, smiles and barely suppressed chuckles. Kathryn rolled her eyes in good fun at the merry shake of her First Officer's head – both well aware that when pared with the contained Tuvok and Vorik, it was inevitable the Lieutenant would appear all the more driven and passionate. Seven of Nine remained unmoved and with her cobalt eyes still firmly on the Calavene.

"We have completed analysing the relevant portions of your historical and sociological databases kindly supplied by Captain Janeway. The Calavene Games & Theory are a unique blend of physical and mental tests, designed to tax the limits of endurance and capability from species across the Delta Quadrant; this cycle thirty four races will compete for the glory and recognition of victory."

"Each team will face trials of the body, and trials of the mind - the four members of every team will be randomly allocated a challenge of mental or physical acumen. The object of every challenge is to excel to the best of your ability. While the mental tasks all bare a uniform standard in terms of their content and methods of resolution, the physical challenges are composed of a randomly selected number of sporting contests validated and accepted from a pool of all competing species. As a result I am pleased to inform the Voyager that the strategy game of Chess, and the sport of Parisie Squares have been added to the Calavene Games & Theory Pool of Competitions."

"At least two members of every team will compete in challenges derived from their home worlds or ships. Those that are selected to compete in foreign sports or challenges will be provided with a comprehensive library of tutorials, and also the relevant equipment and practise space required to excel. We shall draw the challenges of the teams and their members tomorrow afternoon and so we request that the Federation team petition your Chief Physician to release your medical records to us."

Janeway felt the protective tug of command push her to interrupt. "What are the records required for?"

"Forgive us," The Calavene acquiesced with a gentle nod. "Unfortunately despite the purity of the purpose of the Games & Theory, less scrupulous peoples have often taken it upon themselves to improve their chances of victory. It has become necessary for the Calavene to analyse each competitor's base genetic profile and physical characteristics to assure the spirit of competition has not been damaged by those that would seek to gain an advantage."

Kathryn nodded, satisfied. The fragile, lithe female rose upwards gracefully from its perch upon the seat and spread her elongated limbs widely. "We look forward to welcoming the first team from your Alpha Quadrant, and the United Federation of Planets. May you bring success and honour to your ship with your efforts."

As the Calavene moved away and towards the exit to the Mess Hall alongside Chakotay and the Captain, the four members of the newly-formed Federation Team gathered in a small circle about the milling numbers of the Voyager's crew slowly filtering back to their stations and assignments.

"Chess is a highly logical game," Vorik began in a tone that passed as pleased for those hailing from the dusty world of Vulcan. "I would be satisfied should either myself or Commander Tuvok be selected to compete in such a competition. I was Academy Chess Champion during my Third and Fourth year."

"We cannot be sure of securing our natural mental and athletic pursuits," Tuvok cautioned with a particular glance towards B'Elanna, who still sported the grin that had broken out on her features the moment Parises Squares had made it to the selection arena. "It may be that Lieutenant Torres is selected to participate in Chess and Seven as our representative in Parises Squares."

The Klingon's nose wrinkled in obvious distaste as she considered the possibility. "Give me an EPS tap to strip down any day over a black-and-white board. Squares is mine, besides – I'm sure Seven's preference is with chess, right?"

"I have no preferences," The blonde replied flatly, draining the enthusiastic smile from B'Elanna's face.

"Of course you don't," She replied with a sigh, quickly changing the subject. "I believe we're due in holodeck two for some blood, sweat and tears."

A raised ocular implant, shimmering above the artificial blue eye that regarded her with confusion, only served to return the toothy grin to the engineer's features. "If you're extra careful Seven, it'll just be sweat and tears."

…

* * *

…

B'Elanna could feel tears mixing with the salty sweat that ran from he forehead into her eyes, stinging them with enough irritation that she to clench them shut repeatedly – fumbling with a fingertip to clear her vision as she struggled not to slow her pace to a jog and then from there down to one knee on the dirt track. Raven locks stuck tightly to the side of her face, as the Klingon's chest rose and fell in thundering breaths as even the benefit of a third lung struggled to keep taut leg muscles from cramping under the strain of the run.

Just ahead of the ailing engineer the impossibly lithe figure of the ship's former Borg drone continued to set a healthy pace – long blonde tresses normally pinned in a tight coil now loosely bound in a utilitarian ponytail, fluffing slightly in the breeze of the exercise program's holographic weather. Long legs, shapely but hidden beneath a loose two-piece shorts-and-top that did nothing to accentuate the younger woman's curvaceous figure slowed to a walk, as Seven directed her gaze behind and deduced the Lieutenant was in need of a brief rest.

"Why are you stopping?" B'Elanna forced through gritted teeth in an impressively strong voice for someone struggling to find their breath. "We're only halfway through by my mark …"

"We are not yet a third of the way along the course," Seven corrected coolly. "You are attempting to force your body beyond its tolerances, Lieutenant. You must rest or you will cause damage to yourself and impact the chances of success for our team."

The hybrid would have grinned if the act didn't draw precious energy to muscles she couldn't bring herself to use. Over the course of the last five or six hours, B'Elanna had watched the younger woman become increasingly understanding and then approving of the athletic and physical conditioning they were undertaking. Apparently taking to sprinting and weight-lifting only to "make up the numbers" the ex-drone had embraced the archery and velocity practice and had been literally bustling with energy, until the Klingon had over-enthusiastically suggested marathon training.

Torres straightened her aching back as mocha cheeks tinged themselves red. "Don't you ever get tired?"

"I do not have unlimited reserves," Seven replied as she slowly lowered herself to the gravel-strewn ground and began to stretch herself. "My spinal column, pelvic assembly and femur bones are all derived from a duranium-cinocilium alloy. My endocrinological implants allow for the superior management of adrenalin and-"

"Okay! Okay I get it! You're super-Human, you're super-Klingon! You're some sort of Bionic Woman!"

B'Elanna ignored the raised eyebrow, instead focusing on massaging her own tired muscles and not the long legs of a certain blonde. Long legs stretching to angles that elicited dubious thoughts regarding how supple a person might be and utterly alien when applied to someone like Seven, who had no concept for the distracting thoughts playing on the Klingon's brain. "I still can't believe Vorik and Tuvok went to a sauna instead of pounding the dirt with us …"

"You are mistaken Lieutenant – The Commander and the Ensign will be running a similar marathon to the program we are using, however they have chosen to begin their training with a traditional Vulcan cleansing exercise. They will be running in the considerable heat of their native deserts …"

The engineer's ridges furrowed. "Steam yourself like a prune and then run in a desert until you're sick? And people say Klingons are sadists! Vulcans just hide it better. I suppose we should probably call it a day – Computer, end program."

B'Elanna felt the gravel and rough ground beneath the soles of her trainers melt into the holodeck grid painted upon the decking, with only the slightest lurch of dissolving photons. Taking the smaller of the two doors into the changing facilities the Chief Engineer tapped the release code into her locker door and pulled a towel, duty uniform and PADDs to the floor in a tangle of clothing, isolinear chips and curse words. Seven retrieved her own towel without a chaotic display.

"I've got no idea what to take with me to the habitat," The Lieutenant grumbled as she collected her toiletries. "It's been a long time since I spent the night anywhere other than the Delta Flyer collecting Dilithium or a sleeping next to that uppity EPS regulator on Deck Four, just waiting for the little bastard to go off-line …"

The blonde who had been listening, only superficially, to the diminutive woman's ramblings suddenly span on the flat of her heels and regarded the engineer with barely restrained unease. "Elaborate."

"You didn't hear about that?" Torres replied with a nervous smile and the slightest shiver as if the temperature in the changing room had dropped several degrees in a single second.

After the initial briefing with the Calavene, there'd been a minor stream of communiqués between B'Elanna in her capacity as Team Captain and the enigmatic member of the organising race who had been assigned to facilitate Voyager's entry. They'd been informed of a change in entry rules, stipulating all registered teams were required to billet in the habitat's living quarters. She was sure she'd informed Vorik and Tuvok.

But perhaps not Seven of Nine.

"It's another anti-cheating measure," B'Elanna began hesitantly as she fished through the PADDs strewn about the floor for the one containing the transmission record. Snatching it from the tiled floor and handing it to the lanky woman, the hybrid did her best to focus back on the towel and her sweat-dampened hair.

"Unacceptable," Seven surmised as she read the contents of the pad at lightning speed. Seeing the questioning glance forming on her self-declared Captain's features, the ex-drone moved quickly to clamp down on the intense wave of unease – almost nausea – she felt at the prospect of spending time away from the safety and reassuring hum of the Cargo Bay. Better its comforting green light than a throng of strangers and the unknown. "I will require daily regeneration to remain in peak physical condition for competition."

"You don't have to stay in the billet all day and night," B'Elanna replied – not entirely convinced Seven's sole problem with spending her nights on the habitat stemmed from regeneration issues. "You just have to meet a curfew, 2100 hours I think, every evening. You can return to Voyager between bouts and training to regenerate."

Torres felt the urge to push deeper, to attempt to uncover the source of the younger woman's discomfort but knew that if Seven was not willing to discuss it, any pushing would only drive her further away from participation. "Is that a problem?"

The blonde dipped her head in the negative, suppressing the entirety of her bad feeling almost instantly and brutally. "I will comply."

…

* * *

…

The remainder of the day had passed almost instantly for the ship's Chief Engineer – the morning subsumed in conference with Joe Carey, who would assume Acting Chief of Engineering during B'Elanna's absence on the Space Habitat. A capable and skilled officer who in testament to his willingness to accommodate his shipmates dutifully sat through an unnecessary and in-depth briefing, regarding all on-going maintenance procedures and planned repairs.

Despite the fact that he himself had personally added the majority of the tasks to the engineering roster list, he nodded enthusiastically even when Torres crossed into talking as if he were a fresh-faced ensign on his first deep-space tour.

The afternoon had been equally quick in passing while working with a slightly stressed Commander Chakotay, whose desk had been piled almost to the height of a man with PADDs containing leave requests, duty reassignments and all manner of creative ways for the crew to excuse themselves from their duties and attend the Games & Theory as spectators. The inundated XO had remarked almost hopelessly that if he'd granted a third of the requests, Naomi Wildman would have to receive a field commission to Lieutenant and a Bridge posting.

Consulting the computer for the location of the rest of her team as she swept into her quarters to pick up her hastily packed bags, B'Elanna was hardly surprised to find the Vulcan contingent waiting in the Transporter Room as if they'd had nothing more important to do all day but wait for the Klingon to be late. Hastily pulling open each bag to double-check the contents, Torres paused long enough to grab Toby the stuffed Targ from his perch on the pillow and stuff it under a pair of exercise shorts – stealing a glance about her as if the ship's crew had assembled in her bedroom to mock.

Throwing one of the bags over her shoulders and taking one in each hand, B'Elanna took a step towards the door when her eyes fell upon the stack of engineering report PADDs and crew evaluations. For a few moments she hesitated as to whether she was casting off work too quickly. Perhaps a few reports or upgrade requests would make her feel a little less guilty.

Turning towards the glass coffee table the Klingon sent the PADDs crashing to the carpet with a well aimed foot that cleared the desk. Bursting into a wide grin, the engineer swung on her heels and departed the quarters without the slightest concern at leaving anything other than work behind.

…

* * *

…

Seven of Nine felt herself take an involuntary step back as a chilling breeze assaulted her features the moment the transporter's Annular Confinement Beam dissipated, to leave the four-man team's reassembled molecules some two thousand metres from the starship Voyager they had been within barely a moment before. Casting her cobalt eyes around the blonde could see they stood on a small square of polished white marble, barely twenty feet squared, and surrounded by a rolling meadow of green grass that seemed to stretch as far as any eye could see.

Her ocular implant identified the limit of the artificial dusk that was settling on the interior of the upper protective dome, but the illusion of distance was impressive.

The same white marble was laid in walkways that crossed the rolling hills between the clusters of buildings that rose upwards, some simple one-storey structures arranged as semi-circular suburbs but others were shining ceramic-composite towers rising high up towards the "sky". The size of the habitat was such, that the same towering spires that seemed to sprout from the very far side of the dome seemed almost impossible to pick out with any detail – as large as the gnarled, orange-blooming trees that were scattered around the foreground.

"An impressive biosphere," Tuvok noted finally with an agreeing nod from Vorik who had already deployed his tricorder to "savour" the experience. "I am detecting no evidence of artificiality, and no holographic signatures. The habitat it is a genuinely cultivated environment."

Stepping into the small square of marble and waiting politely for the Vulcan ensign to complete his scan, despite the scowl from B'Elanna that he would do so without first acknowledging the alien's presence, a Calavene spread her arms apart in what seemed their traditional greeting. "Welcome to our habitat, Federation Team of Voyager."

The Klingon narrowed her eyes, scrutinising the features – or lack of them – on the female's face. Such was the apparent similarity between all Calavene of the same sex, that Torres was unable to say whether it was the same representative who had visited the ship, or not. She supposed it did not really matter.

"We find a part of our connection with the organic; who we are is lost when we move through the void between the stars," She continued with the same metallic buzz of the translation collar the team had encountered previously. "Our starships consist of as large a habitat as can be fitted to meet their functions – we wish to walk with our feet upon the grass as often as possible when we cannot be on our world."

Although Seven had already analysed the Calavene on the thermal, gamma-wave and normal visual wavelengths thanks to her ocular implant, she noted the widening of Lieutenant Torres' eyes as the hybrid took note of the fact the almost-ethereal, lithe alien representative wore no shoes, or any other adornments bar the translation collar and one-piece white tunic. The blonde found the use of such large spaces inefficient.

Comfort was irrelevant.

"As is our custom all teams are split between their genders during their stay – Commander Tuvok and the ensign Vorik; Lieutenant B'Elanna Torres and Annika Hansen."

The Klingon`s brown eyes quickly shot to icy blue orbs, that seemed to lose what little feeling they traditionally held. The correction was delivered in as stiff a monotone as B'Elanna had heard since the tall woman's separation from the collective. "My designation is Seven of Nine."

If the cutting tone of the correction had wounded the representative, the female showed no signs of reaction. "We apologise," She almost-sang. "Your medical records did not include an alternative name. We will correct the error immediately."

Ever the consummate team captain, Torres moved to change the subject. "Do you have a name? Something we can call you by – something a bit more personal?"

Although the representative had no mouth by which to smile, the slight cock of her head and the way what seemed to count as the Calavene's eyes shimmered conveyed to B'Elanna a smile, or a smirk. "There are no names amongst the Calavene. We are too similar in the physical to differentiate between more than our genders. We are unique in spirit, not body."

Clasping her hands together once more the graceful female considered the request further. "I have been assigned as your personal representative and no other Calavene shall deal with you, unless it is a matter of security, or emergency and they are closer to your then-physical location than myself. If you require me simply request it of the Habitat and she shall make the necessary provisions."

"Your habitat's central computer," Seven clarified. Her ocular implant rose upwards in confusion as the Calavene shook its head almost imperceptibly. "Our habitat, as with all our vessels, think and feel as you do. Each of our race takes a time from their lives to become a ship, or a station, and enjoy the opportunity to swim through space as if in the water of a river."

"Curfew for competitors is approaching," The Calavene added after a moment's pause and the slightest glance upwards, as if communing with someone not in the Voyager Team's presence. "Are you ready to retire for this evening?"

"We are," Tuvok spoke for the Vulcan contingent. B'Elanna glanced towards Seven and receiving a nod, shrugged her own shoulders in agreement. "Lead the way."

…

…

* * *

**To be continued ...**


	2. Chapter II : Red Match

_DURANIUM ANGEL …_

_Pairing : B'Elanna Torres / Seven of Nine_

_Rating : Mature (M)_

_Feedback : I took the time to write this, so give me the courtesy of writing back. :)_

_Author's Notes : This story was started as a response to the "Olympic" Challenge issued on Voq Je Bang. It was completed approximately two years after the Beijing Olympics it was supposed to have been finished for ... Whoops. ;)_

* * *

_Chapter II : Red Match ..._

* * *

"It is similar in construction to early-period Vulcan classical," Tuvok noted as the group came to a final pause between two rounded hills that rose either side of a winding marble path. It was only at the Vulcan's statement that B'Elanna took the time to examine the hills, realising that the windows cutting through the grass and earth as well as the circular, ceramic door cutting into the side of the mounds betrayed a home within. A crooked smile crossed her lips as the Klingon took a great lungful of the fresh, breezy air that invigorated her senses and seemed to iron the aches and pains of the recent years of hard work out from weary bones.

"The Ensign and Commander to the left," The Calavene requested in a tone that seemed more suitable as an evening's lullaby than normal communication. Torres suspected that if she could record one of the alien's simply speaking their alphabet aloud, it would serve as a wonderfully soothing piece of music. Following the female to the circular door that seemed precisely tall enough for the engineer to step through unhindered, B'Elanna laid a hand upon the off-white material and was stunned to find it warm to the touch.

"In your language it would be living metal," The Calavene replied at the inquisitive look directed from the Lieutenant. "It responds to our words and those amongst us trained and skilled can encourage the living metal to grow and take new shapes. It is our primary building material for all things."

Torres nodded in wonder. "You sing it an encouraging song?"

"Your Federation Standard English has a fascinating capacity to grasp ideas very different to your own," The representative answered with the familiar shimmering eye-smile. A soft hum began to fill the air, much to the confused glance of the Klingon and the raised brow of the taller blonde. The hum began to evolve, becoming more than one "voice" and gaining a variation in pitch that never became crass, or loud or upsetting.

The Calavene gestured to the door. "The living metal responds to your touch this is rare but not unheard of. While only we can make it grow and take new shapes, certain species that share empathy and understanding of things that are not their own have been known to elicit the living metal to talk. The same happened with another competing team,  
they called themselves the Hirogen "

"The living metal did not respond as kindly as it does now," The representative said almost sorrowfully. "We were forced to allow them to bring their own pre-fabricated dwellings; the living metal would not tolerate their presence."

Seven offered a stiff nod. "They are a crude species."

The female did not seem drawn to the subject. "I am able to tell you of the competitions you have been allocated by the Circle of the Games &  
Theory. B'Elanna Torres you have received what your Federation calls Parises Squares. Seven of Nine will compete in the Terran game of strategy, Chess."

A simple nod and a devilish grin were the very starkly different acknowledgements. Gesturing to the doorway, the Calavene turned towards the opposite dwelling and the two Vulcans waiting in silence and patience for their similar welcoming and competitions. "As is the way of the Games & Theory you must not divulge with Commander Tuvok and Ensign Vorik your allocated tasks, as they must not with you. This maintains the purity of competition."

B'Elanna nodded though her conscious mind was no longer focused on the Calavene's voice and instead, had begun to repetitively imagine the damage and chaos she would inflict on anyone foolish enough to challenge her on the Squares Court. Images of ion mallets and soft bones and the groans of the unconscious began to raise her blood to boiling point, before the pointed stare of an ex-drone and the retreating alien representative pulled her back to reality. "Shall we?"

The engineer suppressed the urge to chuckle, as she watched Seven stoop awkwardly to squeeze under the small doorframe and into the compact hallway that finally stood at a more comfortable height for the lanky woman. The circular corridor was sparse; a single indentation cut into the wall indicated the replicator, programmed with the Federation standard molecular templates and a small off-set bathroom. B'Elanna noted with some surprise and delight that the shower unit was water-based with no sign of a sonic wave generator in sight.

Opposite the entrance to the bathroom was a room only slightly bigger, expanded to include two beds not standing on supports as on Voyager, or many other examples but sunken into the floor itself so that the a person slept at the same level their feet would tread. Both beds began upon the same wall so that they faced each other along their lengths with only a short space between. A simple series of shutter-protected lockers provided for personal effects, as well as small bulkhead-mounted tables occupying the opposite walls.

"Cosy," B'Elanna said with a smile as her thoughts pandered back to Parises Squares. "Adequate," Seven surmised with less gusto. As the two women set about tidying their articles into the lockers provided, the shorter of the two turned to see the blonde with hands clasped behind her back observing that the engineer had barely finished unpacking the first of three bags.

"Travelling light?" Came the sarcastic response.

"I have taken relevant items," Seven replied coolly. "Additional biosuits, and the astrometric sensor logs taken during the last scan cycle. Since I have been selected to compete in Chess, I do not believe I will need to procure additional items."

B'Elanna nodded, her eyes travelling out towards the bathroom located on the other side of the small dwelling. "What about towels, toiletries?"

The Klingon did her very best to resist the urge to enjoy the subtle tightening of the ex-drone's jaw that identified confusion or irritation, whenever it assailed the young woman. Devoted to the pursuit of perfection and striving for it in the most mundane daily tasks,  
falling short was one of the few things to openly irk Seven. "Elaborate."

"There's no sonic shower here, genius. It's all water-based so unless you plan on slipping into a biosuit soaking like a Targ bathing in a river,  
you'll have to replicate some towels. Maybe some nice shampoo "

Seven procured a non-descript grey bottle from her small carry-all and positioned it on the small table, as if carefully measuring its meaning to the greater universe. Stepping across the small room Torres ignored the minor look of annoyance that followed as she snatched the bottle up and snapping open the dispenser, sniffed curiously.

"Kahless Seven!" B'Elanna gasped as her nose wrinkled in distaste. "It smells like Well, it doesn't even have a smell. What kind of shampoo smells like water tastes? Even Chakotay puts more effort in and he's going grey!"

"The Doctor also took exception to my choice he argued that whilst I had correctly identified the compounds necessary to clean my hair follicles and keep them in optimal condition, I had neglected to consider the finer points of fragrance. As a hologram I do not believe he is qualified to pass judgement."

B'Elanna shook her head with a wistful smile, snapping the bottle's lid closed and tossing it over her shoulder. "He's a smart collection of photons, even if he is bald. It's all about being unique Seven finding a smell that appeals to you and makes you feel good."

"I do not understand," The blonde replied honestly, feeling a curious sense of disappointment at the sigh and frown that formed on the Lieutenant's face as she spoke the words. Though they were very different individuals they shared a common work ethic and desire for perfection, and so Seven felt pushed to accommodate the diminutive engineer where possible. "You have always had a pleasing scent Lieutenant. May I use your shampoo?"

"It's B'Elanna," She corrected quickly with a nod. "I think we can do a little better than that. Willing to be my guinea pig?"

"My test subject," Torres corrected quickly, at the outset of a question as to how the ex-drone would go about changing her physical body. "We'll trawl through the replicator and see what takes our fancy."

"I will comply."

Flashing another toothy smile, B'Elanna turned back towards her bags and growing tired of the monotony, gathered them in her powerful arms and forced them into the locker until she could push the shutter down to hide the mess of clothing and sundries.

Outside the small window that granted a view out to the rest of the Habitat, the Sun or whatever technological approximation of it had retreated below the dome's horizon and a dazzling blanket of pseudo-stars shone brilliantly from above. The engineer noted with wonder and a warm glow that the constellations matched Qo'noS.

"Seven," she said slowly with eyes still fixed on the sky. "Where would you be standing if you saw the constellations on the dome's ceiling?"

Stooping once more, silvery implant crinkling her forehead at the bizarre question, bright blue eyes narrowed as the taller of the pair realised the stars she gazed at were not those that should be visible from the Habitat's variable-filter.

"Unimatrix Three-zero-five," Seven replied icily before turning her back from the window and retreating towards the other side of the bedroom.  
"It is Borg space."

Despite her best efforts B'Elanna felt the smile on her lips fade, as she considered the ramifications of what must have been an engineered Calavene attempt at making those staying to compete in the Games & Theory more comfortable on an "alien" station. Torres had seen what at the very least calmed her hearts did Seven long in some small way to return to the Collective and its huge dominion?

Frowning, the engineer dropped herself to the sunken bed and folded her legs beneath her. Laying her head against the pillow and letting a long sigh escape her lips, the Lieutenant considered the consequences of a simple glance at the stars. Perhaps it was not what the blonde longed for, but where she felt accepted or understood or Wanted.

...

* * *

...

Seven of Nine kept her head perfectly still over the rim of the bath, as one might keep their place on the chopping block of a guillotine. Warm water and strong fingers worked her blonde tresses free of their restraining coil. Closing her eyes, the blonde took a deep breath as a soapy lather worked its way into her scalp and filled the air with a fruity, powerful sweetness.

B'Elanna frowned at the tenseness in the young woman's shoulders. "You can relax Seven it's shampoo not a Red Alert."

Torres shook her head in amusement, gathering up the sopping locks and beginning to wash the foam away. "Decided to grow it out? It's nice You should let it free more often."

The blonde offered the slightest shrug of her shoulders in a non-committed response; lost in the feeling of B'Elanna's fingers as they gently massaged her scalp and down to the sides of her head and neck. At some level she was conscious of the Lieutenant talking but could not bring herself out of her reverie to listen. A feeling of contentedness spread through her being.

"Seven? I said how'd you like this one?"

The younger woman snapped her head upwards suddenly, becoming acutely embarrassed by her loss of control. "It is sufficient."

B`Elanna nodded, concern etched on her caramel features. "We'll try one more - this is my favourite."

Returning her head down so that her chin hovered above the rim of the ceramic bath, Seven clamped down on the fluttering she felt in the pit of her stomach as the feeling of the engineer's delicate but powerful fingertips returned. Breathing deeply once more, the faint waft of apple flooded her senses and suddenly the ex-drone was no longer on the Habitat. Blue eyes widening Seven did not move her head upwards, but instead directed her gaze at her left hand to see the metal alloy that ran as an exoskeleton about the arm had disappeared.

The fingers seemed smaller, younger somehow, and the room had become far more utilitarian. Earthy browns faded from view to be replaced by the familiar grey of duranium and tritanium. Despite the obvious illusion Seven felt her concern regarding her hallucination fall to nothingness and suddenly, the blonde no longer cared that she had shifted planes of existence. This felt familiar, almost like home.

"You know this'll be your last real bath for a while Annika," a masculine voice said from above. "We need to start conserving our water supplies we don't know when we'll get a chance to restock the Raven and we can't afford to slow down, even for a day. We're really close, Anna. I know any day now we'll find a cube "

Seven opened her mouth and from between soft lips a voice that had not been hers for almost twenty years came forth to ignore the passage of time, age and other horrors of adulthood. "I know papa, you said last week. When we find the Borg will we go home?"

The pressure of the fingers massaging her scalp intensified. "I've explained this before Pumpkin , your mother and I have put a lot of effort into this, sacrificed a lot, for one chance. If and when we find the Borg, we'll have a lot of work to do and we're relying on you not to put up a fuss. You need to behave yourself and help us out a little. After all the Borg might be just as curious about us as we are about them "

The blonde gasped in discomfort as the fingertips lathering her scalp began to push against her skull. The voice of her father took on a detached, clipped quality that seemed horrifyingly familiar. "They wish to learn about all we are, Annika. They want to know everything about us they want us."

"You're hurting me papa," She whined. Agony tore through her being, as razor-sharp tendrils bored through flesh and bone and deep into the fragility of the brain. Seven reared up and fell backwards screaming as the pain overwhelmed her consciousness and all senses. Her father's voice duplicated countless times until it spoke with the collective number of billions of voices.

"Resistance is futile."

"Seven?" B'Elanna questioned, as she began to rinse the shampoo from the long blonde tresses snaked about her fingers. Receiving no meaningful response the Klingon leant over and tucked a swathe of hair behind the younger woman's ear, opening her mouth to speak again when the barest whisper came forth. "You're hurting me papa "

The engineer was knocked backwards as Seven sprawled away, falling to the tiled floor with a rib-bruising thud that forced several racking coughs as she groaned and rolled onto her side. Glancing across she saw Seven prostrate on the floor, hands held limply by her side and eyes closed as her tresses were splayed about her head in a tangle of soapy locks. Blue eyes opened suddenly.

"Lieutenant," Seven said flatly as she sat up in a single fluid, almost robotic movement. "Are you damaged?"

Forcing herself to sit up with her arms as leverage, B'Elanna pushed her own raven hair out of her eyes and shook her head. "I'm alright maybe we'll give apple a miss though. What the hell happened?"

"I am not entirely sure," The ex-drone admitted as she broke eye contact with the engineer. "I remember drawing a breath and smelling the apples and then I was no longer on the Habitat. I believe I was on-board the S.S. Raven "

B`Elanna frowned as she climbed to her feet. "Your parent's ship?"

Seven remained on the tiles, her head cocked slightly, brow furrowed in confusion as she struggled to make sense of what she had experienced. "I do not understand "

Laying a hand gently on the shoulder underneath the damp biosuit, Torres helped the surprisingly heavy woman implants the mystery factor she guessed to her feet. "It's been a long day, let's towel off your hair and call it a night."

Seven nodded, but the diminutive woman could tell her thoughts were not focused on B'Elanna's suggestion.

...

* * *

...

_Federation Starfleet dicyclic Warp Drive fitted on Intrepid class starships is capable of a maximum power output of 4,000 teradynes per second under a Deuterium/Anti-Deuterium reactant mix of one-to-one. Subspace disruptions with a field magnitude of 2.95 terracochranes are produced at the emergence threshold on the formation of a standard Borg transwarp corridor._

_1,200,000 hours is the suggested maximum service life of the primary warp coils before replacement on a Federation Starfleet Galaxy-class starship. A sustained polaron disruption field will detect Hirogen vessels attempting to mask their engine signatures from sensors._  
_Fifty-six teradynes is the minimum amount of energy required to maintain a quantum slipstream corridor._

_The atomic number of Dilithium is 87_

Seven of Nine opened her eyes to regard the low ceiling of the bedroom with a slight sigh, ocular implant instantly adjusting to the darkness and providing near-flawless vision in multiple wavelengths that made a mockery of the concept of shutting away light to relax. Her internal chronometer confirmed that the blonde had been attempting to sleep for almost four hours without any hint of success the only achievement being to dishevel her hair and the covers of the bed. Rolling from one side the othe, and fluffing the pillow for the fifth time in as many minutes, the young woman spared a moment of bitterness for the inefficiency of sleep as compared to regeneration.

"Still awake?" A slightly slurred voice mumbled from underneath the bed and its covers opposite.

Seven immediately sat up, hands folded upon her lap and the frustration marring her features smoothed beneath a mask of projected perfection which would have looked every bit normal, save the tussled tresses that framed her alabaster skin. "I am having difficulty attaining unconsciousness. I find I cannot silence my own mind."

The weary frown peeking from over the opposite covers spurred Seven to continue her explanation. "In the last four hours and ten minutes I have examined basic impulse reactor theory, calculated the energy loss inherent in Klingon warp drive design, postulated to the likely location of an unmarked quantum singularity 3.2 Light Years from Voyager's present position, investigated-"

"You can't switch off," B'Elanna interrupted. "I get it - I suppose if I think about I can see why it might be so hard for you. Sleeping is the natural method of restoring balance and energy to the body ,  
rejuvenating the mind and the spirit. Without sleep the vital centres of the brain can't function, hell lack of sleep can kill you directly and indirectly."

The engineer sat up, brushing her own tussled hair back. "You don't play by those rules though your body's vital functions are controlled and monitored by technology that requires recharging, not dreaming. A good amount of the brain present in my head is part of your cortical array I suppose Hell, I wonder if it's even possible for you to sleep."

Seven suppressed the wave of revulsion that climbed through her mask at the mention of implants, and arrays. While the ex-drone used her physiology and her recent past as a pillar of strength against the near-constant change that seemed to assail her daily in life, they were ever-present reminders of her eternal difference and lack of acceptance amongst the crew. They feared the fact her body was not simply riddled with technology, but that it was fused on the most integral levels that many implants were as much a part of her as any flesh-and-blood organ.

"Seven?"

"You may be correct B'Elanna," The blonde replied after recovering her senses from innermost thoughts. "I will consult The Doctor at my earliest opportunity. If I am distracting you I can leave the sleeping area to allow you to regenerate more efficiently."

Throwing herself on to her stomach and burying her face in the pillow the Klingon reassured her team member that such a selfless act would not be required, and that even though she shared only half of her genes with the warrior-race she had inherited their ability to sleep through ion storms and planetary bombardments. Never a good fight, of course.

A few minutes had passed before a change in the Lieutenant's breathing confirmed to Seven that she had lost consciousness once more. Focusing on a non-descript spot upon the ceiling, the blonde indulged in the oxymoron of focusing her mind on nothing, and thoughtlessness. Warp propulsion statistics, subspace field geometry and stellar phenomena observations were suppressed and ignored despite the fact that the same amount of concentration was required to empty her mind as was saved by discarding the thoughts.

A gentle hum began to fill the air, instantly distracting the woman from her struggle and forcing her to sit up and glance towards the occupant of the other bed. In her sleep-throes, B'Elanna had rolled from her side to her stomach and a single caramel hand had dropped forward to lie against one of the walls composed of the Calavene Living Metal. As if exhilarated by the engineer's touch the very structure of the room had begun to sing a waxing instrumental that somehow seemed to dull Seven's augmented senses and slow her reactions.

Her ocular implant rotated through various wavelengths attempting to explain the phenomena that was developing but save a slight disturbance on the infra-red band, received no explanation for its investigation. Mesh-encased fingertips reached up to touch the starburst implant fixed to the jawbone on the right side of her face. The malleable metal seemed to vibrate slightly, as if induced to the same song that filled the room so effortlessly.

Seven felt the subtle tingling spread so that her ocular implant, enhanced limb, armour attachment points and every meaningful Borg piece with a route to the outside of her body had joined the chorus of the Living Metal. Her eyelids felt heavy and where before her cortical array had resorted to her eidetic memory to fill the nocturnal hours, now weariness become so total that the blonde gently fell backwards upon the pillow and joined B'Elanna in surrender to the metal carol.

...

* * *

...

B'Elanna Torres rolled to the side of the bed without the groggy yawn and narrowed eyes of a person still stuck between unconsciousness and reality. Despite sleeping in an alien bed, on an alien station alongside a woman she would otherwise have never imagined spending any amount of time with the engineer felt more rested and energised than at any point in the past few years aboard ship. The usual aches and pains that seemed to return whenever she awoke were gone, replaced instead by the subtle rumbling of an empty stomach.

Expecting to see her companion immersed in technical calculations and astrometric observations, the Klingon was stunned to see Seven and all of the considerable height of the woman, sleeping soundly on the bed opposite. One of the long legs resting on the carpeted floor with her mesh-entwined fingers resting over her forehead. Gently climbing to her feet the engineer tiptoed across to squat beside the younger woman and gaze at the scene in amazement.

The usual strictness, aloofness that made her so untenable and so frustrating was gone the artificial control of her expression absent so that her porcelain features were relaxed and soft. Long blonde tresses framed her head as if laid out around her meticulously. B'Elanna did not resist the smile that formed, save to spare a glance at the small clock she had brought to lie by her bed and regretfully decide it was time to break the beautiful woman's peace. "Seven "

The first gentle uttering received no response. The second brought a small frown to the blonde's face followed by a shifting so her head faced the opposite direction to the disturbance. Rolling her eyes with good nature B'Elanna knelled down and whispered gently into the presented ear. "Time to rise, sleeping princess "

Seven of Nine groaned in a most undignified fashion, her eyes blinking open and then squeezing shut, a stiffness and fatigue enveloping the whole of her being as if the mere act of sleeping had itself drained all of her energy. "B'Elanna ... I am damaged "

The smile on the engineer's face immediately disappeared as concern creased her forehead. Laying the back of her palm against the ex-drone's forehead, and carefully retrieving a tricorder from one of the equipment lockers the grin returned unabashed as the instrument's results filtered to view.

"You're just sleepy," B'Elanna chastised. "It's a normal reaction to feel sluggish and slow when you wake up. Not me this morning though - I feel great. What about breakfast?"

"I do not require ... " Seven began before pausing to force herself to sit up with a sigh. " Nutritional supplement at this time."

Opening her mouth to retort the soft chime of someone's presence at the door to the billet interrupted her rebuke, bringing B'Elanna to her feet with a glance towards the hall. Disappearing from view for a moment the engineer returned with the familiar, natural and drifting form of a female Calavene. Seven guessed the same female who had acted as their reception to the Habitat the evening before.

The speaking grille upon the silver translation collar began its song; "I must apologise for interrupting your morning so early."

"We were already up," B'Elanna replied with a shrug and a glance towards Seven with a barely repressed chuckle. "Well ... some of us were."

The Calavene nodded, folding her fingertips together. "Unfortunately I come bearing news of distress. During the night we received Concerns from some of the other competitors who alleged that the Federation Voyager Team enjoyed an unfair advantage over all others."

The smile faded almost instantly as anger began to boil inside the reddening Lieutenant. "Who the hell is accusing us? The Malon? Wouldn't surprise me. Wouldn't surprise me if they'd all taken a dip in Anti-matter waste to hide their own cheating Targ asses "

"You understand I must keep other teams' identities confidential. They have claimed that Seven of Nine's bio-mimetic implants lend her advantages that are not inherently biologically possible to her species. They have requested she be struck from the Register of Competitors."

The blonde bowed her head slightly, though Torres was too overcome with a furious rage to notice. "The fact Seven had Borg implants should have no bearing on her competition! She was abducted and violated as a child what kind of PetaQ would hold that against her? It must be the Malon. Not even the Hirogen would stoop this low "

The Calavene showed no notice of the rising temper. "I have not come to debate the merit of the complaint B'Elanna Torres, but to inform you of the decision. The Circle of the Games & Theory upheld the spirit of the complaint. Seven of Nine's implants lend her advantages in strength,  
endurance and mental stamina that are not only out with Humankind's natural capabilities but also give her a considerable advantage over other competitors."

"Your mitigating circumstances, as B'Elanna Torres mentioned, are recognised. You cannot be accused of cheating because you did not seek these implants for your own benefit. As such the request for your dismissal from the Games & Theory was denied, however, you will not escape unscathed."

The Calavene cocked her head to the side and where her eyes had shimmered before, now they seemed to pale and somehow, intrinsically,  
B'Elanna recognised it as sorrow. "On my personal recommendation the Federation Team is to be offered the chance to split their Mental and Physical trials between team members, rather than across the team as a whole."

"If you agree, Commander Tuvok will assume Seven of Nine's place in the trial of Chess. Ensign Vorik and B'Elanna Torres will retain their assigned contests and Seven of Nine will be assigned a new trial based on the physical. Her implants disqualify her from any trial of mental agility or skill. Do you accept this proposal?"

Torres placed her hands on her hips, sighing through gritted teeth. The obvious regret in the Calavene's tone and manner had doused much of her anger but a simmering resentment that anyone could hold Seven's implants as proof of advantage still smouldered. Her gaze caught steeled blue eyes settling on the alien representative with a disturbing clarity and coldness.

"I accept the reassignment," Seven stated flatly.

The Calavene nodded, "So it is noted and I now inform you of your replacement contest. You will compete in the Norcadian Martial Art of Tsunkatse."

* * *

**To Be Continued ...**


	3. Chapter III : Thorns

_DURANIUM ANGEL …_

_Pairing : B'Elanna Torres / Seven of Nine_

_Rating : Mature (M)_

_Feedback : I took the time to write this, so give me the courtesy of writing back. :)_

_Author's Notes : This story was started as a response to the "Olympic" Challenge issued on Voq Je Bang. It was completed approximately two years after the Beijing Olympics it was supposed to have been finished for ... Whoops. ;)_

* * *

_Chapter III : Choosing the thorn over a rose ..._

* * *

"We'll get it changed," B'Elanna grunted with the first words of Galactic Standard in many long minutes of purely-Klingon expletives. "I don't care if it's the luck of the gods or someone's idea of a practical joke – hell, maybe they read about it in your medical file and just want to see a rematch."

Brown eyes narrowed at the thought, fists balling reflexively. "I hope for the Calavene's sake this is just plain ignorance on their part. I don't need to wait for Parises Squares to wipe the decking with someone's sorry hide."

For her part, Seven of Nine spent much of the Lieutenant's monologue lost in her own thoughts regarding the announcement; eidetic memory effortlessly replaying a total recall of everything associated with Tsunkatse; the bouts, the fights and the deaths. Nostrils flared instinctively as her mind conjured up the metallic waft of blood based on iron, copper, magnesium and a half-dozen others belong to a dozen or more species.

Muffled by the clothes worn underneath but no real challenge for her ears to hear, she effortlessly – if unwillingly – recalled the sound of bones and chitinous plates breaking under her Borg-enhanced assaults. The fist of her metal-banded hand delivering devastating, jarring uppercuts to bring aliens twice her weight and height down to their knees, to be the recipient of her spinning heel and then down to the arena floor, utterly spent.

Her duality of being was never more obvious than during her forced participation in the Tsunkatse tournament, under the utterly ruthless direction of a Norcadian still known to the blonde only as Penk. Competing in Blue Matches, at first, the aliens she faced would live on to nurse their broken bones and bleed upon the decking and perhaps, return all the stronger.

Red Matches were simpler – the first to die, loses.

The crowd roared their approval as the Pendari Champion acknowledged their cheering with a simple questioning eyebrow, his powerful body speaking volumes where his words were absent. The thundering bass, already struggling to be heard above the adulation of the people for their champion was thoroughly defeated, cheers turning to ardent jeers as Seven of Nine stepped through the archway.

The two facets of Seven's being – Borg and Human – began the contest united as they had always been post-assimilation. The tetracyclic pump where a heart had once beaten, itself buried deep beneath the duranium-fashioned breast plate in place of an upper ribcage, worked to move her blood ever-faster through the body. Nanoprobes contained within swarmed wherever a powerful blow landed upon her frame, suppressing the natural desire of the body to swell in response to the injury of impact.

Control valves cutting through the bone of her skull vented Cerebrospinal fluid, equalising intercranial pressure as her head snapped backwards in response to a stiff blow to the temple. Mechanical replacements for the pancreas flooded the entire cardiovascular system, dispensing an artificial improvement over adrenalin that would kill any mere human exposed to it.

Borg systems worked tirelessly – mitigating the fight and helping Seven to win each one without offering a care as to the particulars of why she fought, or anything as deep as reasoning. The seat of humanity, her consciousness, took a similar position at first. Purely analytical and reactionary, each fight was treated as a necessary exercise in the greater goal to escape back to Voyager along with the gravely-injured Tuvok.

Each opponent was broken down and compartmentalised as a problem rather than a foe; an equation to be worked through and solved rather than another being to be brutalised, attacked and beaten down until they could not rise from the arena's hard metal decking to trouble her further.

Unfortunately for Seven of Nine, the solidarity between her humanity and the Borg mechanics underpinning her most basic functions could not last; one was ignorant of the consequences of the pain and injury not simply inflicted upon her foes, but wounding her own consciousness. The other was merely in denial; under-equipped to deal with the complex moral and ethical questions alongside the base instincts of fight-or-flight.

As she had stepped into the arena for what would be her first – and final – Red Match, the last chains of cold calculation and impeccable logic had snapped, sheared apart by the tremendous psychological loads they had been forced to bear for too long. The two integral components of Seven's very self separated in an explosion of fury; Borg systems continuing to do as they had always done, supporting her firsts as they crashed against old, toughened Hirogen hide in a summation of all the suffering and abuse forced upon her through the years.

She had raised her hands to deliver the killing blow in an animalistic excess of rage. Had the tingling touch of the Annular Confinement Beam not dissolved the atomic bonds between the molecules of her body and reassembled them aboard the U.S.S. Voyager, Seven of Nine would have killed.

Not dispatched those who resisted, or assisted in assimilations as she had done so during her years as a single voice amongst the billions of the Collective. Seven of Nine would have taken the life of another in full understanding of her actions and, more or less, in full control of them. In those moments she was a being of pure emotion – unfettered by implants or nanoprobes, a slave to feeling and reaction, not consequence.

A mere human might need an evening and a bottle of wine (or three) to consider events in such detail and brutal truthfulness. With the benefit of technology unwillingly installed and operated, Seven was able to experience the entirety of the gut-twisting recollection in the ten minutes it had taken B'Elanna to realise the blonde was not giving her rambling monotone due credence. The compact engineer crossed her arms protectively over her chest. "Seven?"

B'Elanna sighed in frustration, her lips pursing in thought. "There's only one left to do," She began loudly with a shrug of her shoulders. "I'll volunteer to take your place. Tsunkatse, Parises Squares, what's the difference, right? I'll do it."

Cobalt eyes snapped upwards, narrowing slightly with the accompanying shake of a blonde head of hair. "Tsunkatse is a game of brute strength – it would not suit you Lieutenant."

Overlooking both the use of the formality of her rank and the brutally honest assessment of her prowess, however grating and verging on the insulting, B'Elanna pressed her back against the wall of the habitat. "Glad to have you back with us. You know you can't do this, right?"

B'Elanna recognised her mistake a moment too slowly for her voice to follow her mind. "I am more than capable of competing in Tsunkatse, Lieutenant," Seven replied so stiffly that her spine might well have been replaced by a deck support for all the suppleness evident in her back. "I defeated several opponents and won many matches when I last competed. I was a formidable fighter."

"You fought for your life, not your kidnapper," Torres snapped a little more harshly than she had intended, finding it a difficult prospect to talk from a position of logic which would most likely appeal to the former drone. "What you went through with that petaQ, Penk, is nothing like this. A few games of Parises and a chess match or two is hardly worth dredging up those memories again – to hell with The Calavene Games & Theory. It's not worth it."

Seven opened her mouth to argue – to mention her eidetic memory meant not simply dredging up those memories, but replaying them as surely as a personal log entry, but got no further than mentioning B'Elanna's rank.

"On Voyager, I'm your superior and on this habitat, guess what's changed? Nothing. I'm still your superior. The bars on my neck mean Lieutenant on decks one through fifteen, but they mean Captain here. If you won't listen to good reason – Kahlass forbid Seven, I could stand here for hours listing the reasons why you can't possibly even consider agreeing to compete in Tsunkatse – I know there's not much chance you'll listen to command authority. Still, it's what I'll ultimately use to put a stop to this, if necessary."

Her chest heaving with the raw adrenalin pulsing through her veins courtesy of the twin hearts hammering beneath double-ribs, B'Elanna pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear. "You need to return to the ship to regenerate, and I need to find a certain Calavene and see what I can do about getting this ridiculous ruling changed."

Using her nominal command authority to retain control of the situation, Torres hoped to appeal to Seven's logic and if nothing else, persuade her of the pointlessness of arguing. Remove any ambiguity, remove any chance of the blonde believing she had any other option but to comply. Resistance was futile, after all.

"Dismissed," B'Elanna added, sounding a little more like Captain Janeway than she would have liked or ever imagined possible. If the situation had been less serious, less strained, the irony would have demanded a smile from her lips.

…

* * *

…

The solitary nature of Cargo Bay Two had rarely seemed so welcoming; a familiar canvas painted silver, gun-metal grey, bronze and copper and lit primarily by sickly greens. LCARS blue blinked out between alcoves, the only evidence at hand that one stood aboard a Starfleet rather than Borg vessel. For a Human seized decades before at a mere six years young and carried off into the darkest depths of the Milky Way, subjected to horrors beyond the words to describe, this bizarre mesh of technologies was as much home as any other part of the galaxy spinning outside of the hull.

Unfortunately for Seven of Nine, she got no further over the threshold than triggering the door sensor, the whine of actuators as they pulled heavy panels apart almost drowned out by the ship's doubly self-appointed Morale Officer and Culinary Master of the greater Delta Quadrant.

"Seven! Seven of Nine!" Neelix called out with such obvious delight he almost clapped his hands together. "What a coincidence to see you here! I was just this minute on my way to the Mess Hall to enjoy the festivities being held in your honour!"

The blonde regarded the fluffy Talaxian as if he had marched forwards with the stock of a phaser rifle squeezed underneath his arm, the muzzle pointed squarely towards her. "I was not aware of any scheduled crew-wide social events involving me."

"Well when I say you, I mean B'Elanna and Vorik and of course, our very own Chief of Security! A celebration for the representatives of The Voyager Vulcans!"

An eyebrow climbed up a pale forehead in an unintentional tribute to the afore-mentioned. "Every team needs a name, Seven … I have a few more suggestions! Starfleet Sharks, UFP United, B'Elanna's Buccaneers, Team Intrepid – that's a clever one-"

"Because you named it after Voyager's starship class," Seven interrupted, the smallest step from sighing and holding back only in surprise at the irritation rising unexpectedly with the Talaxian's rambling.

"The Federation Games Team will be sufficient," She answered evenly with a deliberate attempt to both mellow her tone and steer the conversation towards a conclusion. Cobalt eyes stole a glance through the still-open door of the cargo bay, at the single active alcove and the pattern of lightning dancing across the disc suspended above it. Cybernetic oblivion in the bizarre electronic purgatory of regeneration became more tempting with each passing minute.

Such a momentary distraction cost Seven her one and only chance to put an end to Neelix's well-intentioned scheme before it could could take to the skies. "You're the only competitor whose come back to the ship so far," He meandered, "It's not just a get-together for the crew. Delegates from some of the other alien teams are here too, eager to hear our exciting tales of adventure so far from home!"

"Why don't you join me?" Neelix ventured, seizing his moment with a well-meaning cunning which bellied his appearance, but explained the wiles needed to survive the attentions of the Kazon for the many decades before the Talaxian had boarded Voyager. "You don't have to stay long – consider it a scouting opportunity. One of the aliens there might end up being your opponent! Couldn't hurt to size them up!"

Realising the direction of the conversation far too late to change its outcome, Seven's shoulders might well have sagged had it not been for the multiple anchoring points once supporting exoskeletal plating. Usually having no real difficulty in ignoring whatever frivolous request the Talaxian made daily – from the offer to cook anything and everything to personally written invitations to attend any one of ten weekly Mess Hall gatherings – the blonde nonetheless felt obligated to agree.

The bright smile and twinkling eyes did little to hide the pride Neelix clearly felt in the gathering and his duties, the full force of the former doing more to wear Seven down than the combined speeches of the captain on the importance of Starfleet regulations or The Doctor's endless instruction on the social graces.

Stepping fully into the corridor, so that the cargo bay and her alcove disappeared behind retreating doors which seemed to activate the moment the decision was made, Seven nodded curtly. "I will comply."

…

* * *

…

B'Elanna drove the point of her elbow into the burly chest presenting itself as choice target, bringing the crook up to crash into the chin which bent downwards in reflexive response to the blow to the gut. Letting out nothing more threatening than a strangled cry of pain, the body crashed to the floor of the court, freeing Torres from the obstruction and making the path to goal wide open. Ion mallet held tightly in sweaty palms, she set off towards the ramp.

Her lips curled upwards in an unrestrained snarl, eyes locking against another defiant pair belonging to the Hirogen stepping across to block her path. Sans the bulky particle rifle or multi-ridged composite body armour, the hunter was still recognisable as such – all nine feet of his bulk standing as an immovable object to B'Elanna's irresistible force. A red streak of war paint colouring his brow, the formidable alien held his ion mallet across the chest like some great iron bar.

The snarl became a toothy, feral grin as the Klingon simply sped up – thighs pressing down and pushing up against the court as she closed the distance, mallet held against her chest likewise.

Metal crashed against metal a moment before bony hide met caramel-coloured flesh. In that moment B'Elanna made not the slightest effort to lessen the impact, head snapping back as her ridges bounced painfully against the Hirogen's waist. For his part the powerfully-built alien could no more keep his feet as change his centre of gravity by wish alone, falling backwards to be sandwiched between the court floor, two ion mallets and a maniacally-grinning Chief Engineer.

Ignoring the pain in her side as double-ribs took the brunt of the follow-on impact with the floor as she rolled away from the collision, Torres hauled herself to her feet and half-limped, half-ran up the steep ramp ahead. Bringing the head of the well-bent mallet down against the goal marker, B'Elanna tossed it aside with a clatter to the triumphant sound of the buzzer wailing.

Roughly brushing the back of her hand across the trickle of red running down from a split lip, Torres savoured the metallic tang. At the base of the ramp the Hirogen climbed back to his feet apparently – and amazingly – no worse for wear, expression unreadable beneath the fabric covering stretching over his features and leaving only his eyes visible. Feeling the weight of the two broken halves of the ion mallet he still held in his gauntlets, the hunter cast them to the floor with a shrug and tugged the fabric mouthpiece down underneath his chin.

"I have competed in these Games longer than you have walked upright, Klingon," The Hirogen grunted – voice guttural, gravelly and so hoarse as to strain all but the ears of a Ferengi to hear. Red tracks of scar tissue, healed as best they could years before, ran from the apex of his chin downwards past the throat to disappear under the collar.

He towered over B'Elanna, so that the back of her skull pressed against her neck to be able to match the withering stare directed down from above. "I have competed in many, many games … I have been knocked down more times than I remember ..."

"I never enjoy losing and this is no exception. This game however, Parises Squares, is worthy. It needs stronger mallets, perhaps, but it is worthy."

Her grin gave way to a hacking cough, doubling over to rest her weight on her tired knees as the Hirogen smacked an armoured palm against B'Elanna's back with a nod. "We will play again before the Games proper, Klingon – your honour demands me a rematch. Better to suffer a defeat in practice than competition; I will not be so forgiving next time."

Lowering herself to the court floor, gingerly, Torres waved the Hirogen away with a hand. Roughly pushing a head of sopping, stringy brown hair back and out from her features, cheeks flushed bright red with the effort of it all the diminutive engineer squeezed her eyes shut to shield them from the salty sting of sweat.

The Calavene were infuriatingly polite no matter the rage that confronted them or made demands of them. Not a false kindness – a fake smile made with the lips and not the eyes, a meaningless nicety uttered to turn away an angry stranger. Every apology they offered was absolutely sincere, alongside each point they truthfully empathised with. B'Elanna had spent an hour lambasting, complaining and finally demanding concessions or changes from their assigned Representative only to leave with nothing, the decision stood regarding Seven's assignment of Tsunkatse. For all their refusal to help, the Calavene had seemed strangely sympathetic – even regretful – of the sorry situation.

Frustrated with the impasse and feeling no small amount of personal shame that she was failing in her perceived role as captain, B'Elanna had settled on the excuse of practice for the upcoming competition to indulge in all the rough-and-tumble physicality she could handle. By the stiffness already settling into her joints, her body had reached the rough-and-tumble limit of the day and beyond. The deep-seated anger at the unfairness of the situation, even at the prospect that her team's entire participation in the event looked set to end had been quenched by blood, sweat and sneers.

A simmering irritation more suited to a particularly stressful day in Main Engineering remained, to snap at anyone unlucky enough to deserve it or more likely, not.

While the idea to enter these games belonged to Vorik, it had been B'Elanna's passion which had taken it and made it more than an exercise in intellectualism and physicality – it had been her drive which had made it a competition, a challenge to be the very best. Vorik had found a use for his and a few others' Shore Leave but B'Elanna had mobilised the entire ship to action; fifteen decks buzzed with talk of the games and a palpable excitement had flooded the little ship from the Alpha Quadrant.

It had been B'Elanna who had finally convinced Seven to join the team, motivated at the time by a desire to win and to win well, requiring nothing less than the very best Voyager could offer which, grudgingly, Torres accepted as the resident ex-Borg. With the entire sorry Tsunkatse story however, that initial desire to win morphed to become a weight not too dissimilar to the burden of command; while she could not have known this would come to pass, B'Elanna was still partly responsible by virtue of being the driving force behind the entire enterprise.

Climbing back to her heavy feet, back pressed against the court wall, B'Elanna emptied her lungs with a long and keening sigh. She had tried to change the decision and failed and there was no conceivable way she would allow Seven to compete even if in some inexplicable way, the blonde had wanted to. There was only one real option remaining and it pressed heavily against her twin hearts.

She would have to return to the ship and withdraw Voyager from the competition.

…

* * *

…

Seven of Nine accepted the fifteenth proffered hand – this time belonging to Lieutenant Countryman, who flashed a smile and offered the blonde a variation on the countless messages of luck, hope and blessings cast her way in the eleven minutes and seven seconds since she had entered the Mess Hall with Neelix. Colourful streamers in the colours of the Federation hung in bunches across the bulkheads and ceiling, above tables festooned with dozens of dishes from dozens of worlds only some of which Seven was familiar with.

Conspicuous by their dress uniforms, Captain Janeway and her first officer stood together beside the expansive bay windows which granted a starscape above the mass of the ship's forward saucer section. Deep in the diplomatic dance as practised by thousands of Starfleet captains over two hundred years, Kathryn managed to break eye contact with the Malon beside and offer Seven a lackadaisical shrug of her shoulders and a wide smile.

Returning the gesture with a shallow dip of her chin, Seven watched Neelix disappear through the throng of alien and crewman alike and took the chance to give the Talaxian the slip, at least for a while. Making her own way through the crowd, pausing every few moments to accept praise or congratulations that made her increasingly uncomfortable, Seven was glad of the distraction of the ship's helmsman.

"Seven!" He called out cheerily, gesturing for her to join him beside a buffet table he was dutifully demolishing via the plate held in his hands. "Have you tried the Malon butter-pastries? Well … It's not butter, but I'm assured it's from whatever their equivalent animal is that goes moo. I have expected it to be glowing green ..."

Tom tore into one of the pastries, crunching it between his teeth as he talked. "Quite a turnout, isn't it? Apparently these games have been going on for centuries here – quite the eclectic bunch we've assembled, huh? Look over there ..."

"There's a Kazon chatting with a Trabe," He gestured, snatching up another morsel. "I saw a Krenim Commandant earlier, apparently the games are older than a lot of inter-species rivalries. Some see it as a chance to prove their superiority over old enemies, others like the Hirogen see it as just another form of the hunt I suppose. A few use the games as a chance to forget their troubles and prove they're more than their problems – like the Caatati ..."

Seven found herself scanning the room intently, picking out the species as the helmsman talked on. "Most of these species have propulsion technology comparable to Voyager," She interrupted. "Species 329 – the Kazon, lie far behind this space. They could not reach these games without-"

"Without taking a long, long time," Paris agreed with perhaps less scientific precision, offering a shrug in place of a number. "That's dedication for you. Familiar with The Olympic Games?"

Seven opened her mouth to offer a "brief" explanation of the games, their intentions and structure but decided to put one of The Doctor's newer social classes to use: Lesson #56 : Always leave them wanting more. "Yes." She truncated.

"If you ignore the astronomical distances, it's pretty comparable. Back when Earth was as big as it got for the Average Joe, the distances were pretty considerable and the Calavene Habitat moves between games in the same way the hosts on Earth rotated. It's all for the sport, Seven."

"Speaking of the sport," He bridged simplistically, "There's quite the lucrative pool going on. I would never institute something so seedy and unbecoming of a senior officer, but those rogues down on deck fourteen can't be reasoned with. I hear you and B'Elanna are far and away ahead of our Vulcan duo in betting ..."

Seven felt the discomfort in her gut double, "I would not think there is much demand for access to Starfleet culinary databases outside of the ship."

"Well you know what they say," Paris offered with a grin. "While Tuvok's away Lieutenant Ayala will play. He's drawn up a list of items and information authorised to leave the ship as barter. The rumour doing the rounds is Chakotay unofficially vetted it but that's the rumour mill for you. Don't underestimate a Krenim's taste for banana pancakes, Seven – we're the newcomers!"

Excusing herself as best she could, ocular implant effortlessly tracking Neelix as he tipped his chin upwards in an attempt to spot her, the blonde took advantage of a small throng of crewmen and Hirogen deep in a discussion of the merits of holodeck-based blood sports; the towering hunters providing an excellent barrier against Talaxian eyes.

In untold centuries and perhaps even millennia, The Borg had assimilated countless thousands of species – each one assigned an incremental index number as familiar to Seven as the Prime Directive to any Starfleet officer or the concept of honour to any Klingon warrior. To glance at any individual was to instantly know the fate of his species when faced with the Collective – a chance encounter and a smattering of assimilations, a prolonged conflict claiming hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, or complete extinction.

Like an electronic litany charting the destruction of entire worlds and their peoples, it was as easy to recall as the urge to draw a breath.

It came as no small surprise that the blonde found this information impossible to instantly recall, as her own eyes fell upon a tall female nursing a glass untouched by lips and still bubbling, fizzling weakly to the air. The surprise was not simply that no index number came to mind – after all the Borg continued to meet new species and assimilate them after Seven's disconnection from the Hive Mind. Furthermore the Borg had not assimilated every race that existed and so lacking a number was not by itself disconcerting.

What was disconcerting, in fact, was that the alien standing before her did have an index number. Many thousands of her kind had been assimilated and Voyager itself had suffered numerous encounters with that same species, with varying levels of conflict and death. The female nursing the full glass had not produced an index number in whatever mechanical component passed as Seven's unconscious, because she did not resemble anything the ex-drone recalled from the considerable repository of the Collective on the subject.

"You are Species 500 ..." Seven asked abruptly, drawing the gaze of the female and another of crewmen surrounding. " … You are Vidiian?"

The alien offered a small smile, her own eyes panning across the flesh of her free arm and holding the back of her hand up towards the blonde, "I am once again. I was born almost twenty eight of your years ago but it I've only been truly Vidiian for six months. Six months free of the phage and six months young. I'm not surprised you don't recognise us ..."

Her forehead crinkled, a frown settling over her features. "When your ship passed through our space so long ago I had a different name … I was a different person. We were all different – we weren't alive like this crew but we weren't dead; trapped between the two but now, we are free. I have a new name now ... We all took new names. I'm Sari'Pal."

The Vidiian extended her free hand out, palm facing upwards. Extending her own to meet, palm down, the blonde nodded. "I am Seven of Nine."

"A Borg separated from the Collective and a Vidiian free of the phage ..." Sari mused, pursing her lips as if she were tasting the concept like a wine or a spirit. "Surely there are many stories such a pair could tell – will you sit with me for a while, Seven of Nine? I've been nursing this drink for so very long. You're only the third person behind your holographic Doctor and your Captain to find me, and they're so very busy."

"You are here to compete?" Seven asked with a surprise she could not hide from her voice. Sari offered a shrug of her shoulders, setting the glass she had held for so long down on the tabletop. "The Vidiian Solidarity has spent so very long dying – we have spent so very long in the single-minded pursuit of survival that our artists, composers, architects, politicians and countless others died without heirs. One can't care about music or painting when one's own body conspires to kill you.

"Two thousand years spent dying slowly, stretched like paint spread too thinly on a canvas. Two thousand years spent forgetting civilisation and two thousand years ignoring what it means to live in the pursuit of simply living. Those days are gone and my people rise up from the doom of the phage to paint, compose, design and elect. We are in a rush …

"A rush to do everything there is to do, now. We wish to live for the moment and experience everything that can be experienced. Most of my life was spent asleep but now I'm awake and I'll dance until the sun sets, and I'll dance until the moons rise in its place."

Sari brushed a lock of silver hair back behind her ear, "I don't have the strength of the Hirogen or the intelligence afforded to you. I don't have the stamina of the Kazon or the cunning of the Malon – I don't think I will even qualify for the Games – but I have something none of them, except perhaps you, understand; the urge to live. Across what you call the Delta Quadrant, hundreds of thousands of Vidiians are travelling alone looking for experiences and new wonders. Our people have taken the warships once used to hunt the very flesh from the backs of our neighbours, picking a star from a window for a course.

Seven could see the parallels as easily as if they had been drawn on the tabletop for her. Severance from the Borg Collective had ended decades spent neither living, nor dead, neither wake nor asleep. And yet where Sari'Pal found a new purpose in finding a new purpose, Seven had continued in a daze. Performing astronomical scans and repairing malfunctions all day, every day in a bizarre tribute to the years spent as a tool of a group mind.

She found it increasingly impossible to avoid an increasingly likely truth – that for all the progress she had made from drone to individual, she still operated as if the former; waiting for assignments, carrying out orders and treating inherently individualistic pursuits like dating as an equation to be balanced and solved.

"What is your assigned competition?" Seven ventured, forcing her monologue to the side in the hope it would be content to return to the pit of her stomach. The Vidiian cocked her head to the side, green eyes staring out at the stellar view afforded from the front of the Mess Hall. "Tsunkatse … I think it's Norcadian. I am not sure who was more concerned, myself or the Calavene."

"We are cured of the phage," Sari began to explain. "Nonetheless those of us who lived with its rotting touch for long wasted away. We lost our muscle mass and our strength and even though it's banished, it'll take time for our people to find the natural toughness that was taken from them."

Seven's brow furrowed, "You are not fit to compete physically? Is it not foolish to then pick to compete against those at the peak of their powers?"

"Very foolish," Sari smiled. "But we've been so serious for so long … I think I am allowed a little time to be illogical. I am sure I will have the foolishness beaten from me before long. I pity whoever stands opposite your speciality ..."

"Tsunkatse," Seven clarified, the smile on the Vidiian's face widening rather than vanishing. "Do you have a sparring partner? I would be more than happy to volunteer and I'm badly in need of such practice ..."

At that moment Seven made a conscious decision which would need to be reaffirmed almost immediately, as the doors directly ahead of the table breezed apart to admit B'Elanna Torres. Cobalt eyes followed the engineer as she took stock of the celebration, a flash of unease passing over the Lieutenant's features.

For her part, Sari'Pal was content to rest her weight against the back of the chair while watching the young woman opposite, whatever the blonde had planned to say disappearing along with any focus on the conversation at hand. The Vidiian craned her neck around towards the doors to glance at the newcomer, green eyes passing between Seven and the stranger with an accompanying smile that never seemed to fade.

"Please excuse me," Seven said absent-mindedly, climbing to her feet. Sari nodded, choosing the moment carefully as the lanky woman twisted in her seat. "Shall we say tomorrow, fourteen hundred hours, on-board the Calavene Habitat?"

Blue eyes blinked in confusion, refocusing on Sari. "I need a sparring partner," The Vidiian clarified, "Are you available?"

Thoughts only vaguely related to the matter at hand, Seven nodded. "I will comply," She acquiesced, watching the ship's Chief Engineer spot the Captain and finding more urgency in her long legs.

"B'Elanna!" A cheery voice enthused, brandishing a tray of Malon butter-pastries in front of the surprised hybrid. For all his minor irritation the ship's Talaxian jack-of-all-trades had chosen a useful moment to inflict his good-natured brand of helpfulness – giving Seven the time to negotiate the crowded Mess Hall, clasp her hands behind her back and listen to the engineer's strained-if-polite refusals.

"Mister Neelix," Seven interrupted, her gaze switching to B'Elanna seamlessly. "Lieutenant Torres, I require your assistance."

"It is important," She added with softening of her tone which went some way to holding back the Klingon's second refusal in as many minutes. Barely resisting the urge to place her hands on her hips, B'Elanna relented and nodded her head before turning on the spot and leading the escape from the bustle of the crowd.

…

* * *

…

Having apparently picked up more mannerisms from the Captain than she had previously thought, B'Elanna squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You can't be serious … You cannot be serious."

"I assure you, Lieutenant, I am," The reply came – dispassionate, formal and laden with simplification. "I am perfectly able to discharge my duty and it is not necessary to withdraw from the Games and Theory. I will compete as assigned."

"The hell you will!" B'Elanna snarled, a finger pointed dangerously up at the taller woman as if an unsheathed blade. "This isn't duty! It's a stupid little competition to use up a some shore leave, and it sure as Kahlass isn't important enough to re-live what you went through for the sake of a couple of medals! I wouldn't put you through another Tsunkatse match unless the fate of the ship was riding on it!"

Seven's first, more direct attempt having failed, she was left with no other choice but to resort to the truth. "The ship's physical well-being is not at issue – the well-being of those aboard is. This "Stupid little competition" has been adopted ship-wide, the chance to represent their home has done much to motivate the crew. Productivity in Astrometrics alone has increased by twenty seven percent ..."

"Are you sure that's not just because you're gone?" B'Elanna snapped, rolling her eyes. Seven absorbed the insult as if expecting it, armed with a superior retort. "Productivity in Main Engineering has increased by thirty four percent."

Ship-wide performance targets have been eclipsed across all decks and departments for the first time in fourteen months. The percentage of crewmen unavailable for duty through sickness is at its lowest point in two years, component overhaul for systems not Vital For Flight is-"

"I get it!" B'Elanna interrupted, "Point taken! I can't even count the number of hands I've shaken and well-wishers I've fought through to get here. Erin kept me in a turbolift for almost ten minutes telling me how much Paris has riding on Parises Squares … The ship's riding high on good-feeling, fine. If they knew that morale was built on the condition you competed in Tsunkatse, there isn't a man or woman or alien or hologram on this ship who'd expect you to go ahead … Tom included."

Folding her arms across her chest protectively, B'Elanna leaned against the bulkhead and sighed. "I've had my share of fights, Seven – a few I almost didn't walk away from. I can handle myself in a punch-up, and in the end I walked away the winner but the memories are still there … I don't doubt you could wipe the floor with anyone stupid or brave enough to step into an arena with you …

"If I really believed you were made of ice, I wouldn't give a damn. If I really thought there was nothing more to you than a smugness and an arrogance that could drive a Vulcan to strangle you, I'd let you fight for the next hundred years. When you first stepped out of that Cargo Bay with hair and two eyes, I thought you were the epitome of a Wolf in sheep's clothing. You were useful, sure for the ship and getting home but beyond then I didn't think you were much more than a drone with its wires hidden beneath a pretty face.

"You're still smug and by Kahlass you're arrogant and I still think you could drive a Vulcan to strange you. I still think you're aloof and hard but how long have you been on this ship now? How many light years have we walked together?"

"Don't answer that – rhetorical question," B'Elanna added with a shake of her head. "There's an honest-to-Kahlass person beneath your armour and I've seen what happens to that person whenever your armour takes a dent. Before it's usually been in the line of duty, from orders up high from the Captain herself but not this time …

"I lead this team. I'm the captain in this situation and you're my responsibility. When I badgered you to join this team I didn't think it fully through, too wrapped up in winning and too wrapped up in the excitement of competition. If something happens, if you break down Seven, it's because I orchestrated it."

Seven of Nine opened her mouth to retort – to deliver whatever empty platitude was necessary to end the conversation with the result she desired, but found nothing on the tip of her tongue. A frown married her features, the self-assuredness that usually came with what had become a trademark stance of feet apart, hands together, back straight absent this time.

"I am only a member of the crew when I am on-duty," The blonde said finally, hesitantly as if her mind conjured each word only as her voice prepared to speak it. "Outside of astrometrics, Velocity with the Captain and my social lessons with the Doctor I am a tool to be stored in the Cargo Bay. There is no difference between myself, a hyperspanner or a tricorder."

"The crew are always polite, they do not shun me deliberately but there is always unease. There is always stilted conversation, sometimes they do not know what to say to me so they smile. The smiles they wear are out of politeness, not happiness.

"Every smile offered to me, today, has been one of happiness. Crewmen who have never spoken a word to me outside of their duties engaged in spontaneous chatter. They encourage me – they are excited to see the games and they want to win. They want me to win for them, B'Elanna."

"Sport does that ..." B'Elanna offered weakly, her throat uncharacteristically dry at the brutal truth of it all. " … Brings people together, gives them a common hope."

"If I tell them about Tsunkatse," She sighed, "They will understand but they it will be me who took away their hope. They will not resent me, but they will remember that we withdrew on my account. Their smiles will go back to politeness and I will have lost my chance to find a common bond. I will have lost a chance to become more human, in their eyes."

B'Elanna bit the bottom of her lip, a terrible struggle for supremacy raging within her hearts. To grant Seven's request, to play the games and theory, would be to run a risk, a grave risk that it could all prove too much for the blonde and break the all-too-fragile person beneath the layers of Borg perfection, the Annika Hansen behind Seven of Nine.

To do as Torres had intended – to find Janeway, make her aware of the situation and withdraw the team would send Seven back to the Cargo Bay. Worse still, it would reinforce the stereotype of a woman of two worlds who could not remain in either one; stuck in a purgatory of technologies and cultures which for all their common base could not ever mesh successfully.

One choice thrust personal responsibility upon B'Elanna, the other absolved her of it and indeed, lauded her level-headedness for not taking the risk. One choice was easy to make, the simple act of taking away Seven's choice.

"We'll do it," B'Elanna said simply, brown eyes locking with their blue opposites. "I might be captain of this situation but I'm not Janeway – I can't take this choice away from you even if it ends up blowing up in both our faces for no real gain. You better get some regeneration in … Curfew begins in a few hours."

Seven nodded, swallowing whatever words had struggled to be voiced. B'Elanna hesitated, feeling as if there was still something to be said, something to be found. She reluctantly stepped away, surrendering to the awkward silence.

"B'Elanna ..." Seven managed before the engineer disappeared from sight. "Thank you for believing in me."

"I've believed in you, professionally, for a long time ..." The hybrid admitted without making eye contact, pace slowed but still carrying her around the corner. "Don't make me regret believing in you personally, too."

…

* * *

**To Be Continued ...**


	4. Chapter IV : Passion & Perfection

_DURANIUM ANGEL …_

_Pairing : B'Elanna Torres / Seven of Nine_

_Rating : Mature (M)_

_Feedback : I took the time to write this, so give me the courtesy of writing back. :)_

_Author's Notes : This story was started as a response to the "Olympic" Challenge issued on Voq Je Bang. It was completed approximately two years after the Beijing Olympics it was supposed to have been finished for ... Whoops. ;)_

* * *

_Chapter IV : Passion & Perfection ..._

* * *

Thankful on some level, undoubtedly, for being free of the cellular ravages of the phage Sari'Pal's body nonetheless offered no thanks as it was forced to the very edge of its flexibility – spine bent to form an arc as the Vidiian threw herself backwards to avoid a menacing, swinging foot. Momentum from the impact with the floor rolling her onto her front, she lashed out to drive the flat of her own shins against the long legs stalking forwards.

Seven of Nine crashed to the paper-thin matting below, legs swept out from underneath ahead of an impact made all the worse by the extra body mass her implants afforded her. Suppressing a grimace, the blonde climbed back to her feet and wasted no time in closing the distance with Sari – reflexes honed by technology effortlessly catching the Vidiian in mid-kick, clutching a single foot a mesh-encased hand and vice-like grip.

Apparently unwilling to wait for Seven's next move, her opponent pushed off from the matting with her standing leg, driving the flat of the free foot against the taller woman's exposed temple, forcing the blonde's head to snap back and breaking her grip a subconscious effort to balance the force of the blow. Seven fell to one knee, the opponent ahead splitting to form two mirror-images as the effects of the head knock found their mark on the one organic eye gifted from birth.

Ever-ready to step into the breach her Borg systems effortlessly disabled the optical nerve to the confused retina, routing the entirety of her visual sense through the ocular implant framing her pale face. Still Seven blinked furiously, the consciousness built upon her implants heavy and foggy.

"I think that's enough for now ..." Sari suggested, wiping the back of her fingerless glove against her brow.

"That is not necessary," Seven assured, "I am fully capable of continuing for several hours."

The Vidiian offered a tired smile, "I've no doubt you are but I am not – I'm supposed to be regaining my physique, not destroying it. Twenty eight rounds is quite enough for me."

Making as if to argue her case, Seven relented with a nod and dabbed at the sheen of sweat trickling from her head and shoulders; neatly hanging the tower back over the nearby washing basin as she pressed a palm up to her temple and the bulge beginning to swell . Sari'Pal had impressive flexibility and agility but below-average strength and stamina – it should have been a rudimentary thing to defeat the Vidiian inside of the normal fifteen rounds of Blue-Tsunkatse.

The pain in her temple, lower back and in-between showed it to be anything other than rudimentary. Despite employing combinations of every sanctioned move, she had been unable to take Sari off her feet to the mat once without reply. Seven could expect a far tougher opponent in the qualification match alone, to say nothing of the tournament proper.

The moves felt the same – the combinations of punches, blocks and throws felt no different now than when she had performed them under Penk and his travelling circus of kidnapped competitors. Something was not the same, aside from the motivation she felt a year before; one could not be spurned on to the same heights in the name of competition that one might reach in the name of staying alive.

"You've spent a long time studying this," Sari guessed between gulps of water. "You must have hit me with every sanctioned move, more than once. It takes a lot to fight but it takes even more to learn what's behind a fight like that. I could never be so methodical ..."

Methodical. Mechanical. Structured. Ordered.

Although on some level she had always known, Seven could no longer deny the missing component which explained the difference in her performance of a year ago and now. It was the very same component without which would have seen her life ended while trapped as an animal in Penk's circus, had an old Hirogen not rediscovered his taste for the hunt in taking Seven in as pupil. The venerable warrior had helped – in truth forced – the blonde to override barriers between her human consciousness and Borg nature; walls built impossibly high so that the clouds in the sky were split in halves.

With these walls raised she was reactive, not proactive. She had no cunning or guile, for such things were the remit of her humanity which was not permitted to take part. She viewed Tsunkatse not as a fight but as an equation, and her repeated attempts to balance it only brought defeat and injury.

Only when the two most fundamentally diametric elements of her personality came together – the technological foundations of her body and subconscious, together with the human domain of her mind itself – did she fight as one person. Human flexibility backed-up by Borg redundancy and strength proved to be without equal.

And yet by breaking these walls down, the nature of Seven's humanity tried to assault the very foundations which supported it. Fear, guilt, doubt and a myriad of negative emotions whipped and raged and screamed at the implants and the nanoprobes and the tubules. Her consciousness became filled with sorrow and regret over what had been done to change it, to pervert it with machinery and technology.

By breaking the walls between Borg and Woman, she had shattered a hole in a dam and allowed the reservoir above it to push through without restriction. Two distinct beings-of-sort wrestled for control of only one existence, the battle necessary if Seven as a person was to survive the ordeal she had been put through by Penk.

A year ago, Seven had fought to ensure Tuvok's survival and her own. She had fought for him but also herself and so in that way, she had been able to put all she could be into the fight. All her hopes and her nightmares called a temporary truce with each other, to focus their efforts on surviving. This time, however she fought not for herself but Voyager – not for her life but the pride of others. Her hopes and nightmares refused to be put to silence, unwilling to give her the peace of mind to commit everything she had to the cause.

Sari swallowed the last dregs from the bottle held in her hands, discarding it to the floor and glancing up as a stranger levered herself off from the doorway towards them. Recognising her as one of the Voyager's senior staff present at the meet-and-greet she had attended the day before, the Vidiian offered a smile.

"I am afraid I did not have a chance to meet you personally, Lieutenant ..."

"Torres," The officer provided simply, her eyes so guarded as to be locked away from sight. Sari nodded, "It's good to meet you Lieutenant Torres. You have a beautiful ship."

Roused by the familiar name, Seven's chin tipped up and the subtlest stiffness made a temporary return as the taller woman climbed to her feet and clasped her hands behind her back. "Lieutenant – How may I assist you?"

The engineer rolled her eyes, hands unconsciously settling on her hips. "B'Elanna," She corrected, "And you can't assist me. I'm just checking on on how badly you've gotten yourself beaten up ..."

The smile on the Klingon's face dulled at the sight of the welt creeping across the blonde's forehead and without a full handle on her actions, reached out to gently cup the side of Seven's face. For the barest moment she stiffened as if the touch had carried with it a current, the gentleness of the hand replacing the surprise with the slightest sagging of the shoulders. "B'Elanna ..." Seven half-whispered. "I am okay ..."

Perhaps conscious of the stranger watching an intimate moment the engineer had never dreamed of, leat alone planned, B'Elanna felt herself reach for the familiarity of formality in the finest tradition of the taller woman opposite. "Good," She answered – a little more firmly than necessary.

"This is Sari'Pal," Seven added in a flawless adoption of the Lieutenant's change-of-scene. "She has agreed to be my sparring partner. I met her at the function Mister Neelix arranged for the Games & Theory, held yesterday in the Mess Hall."

Taking the hand extended, B'Elanna offered a dutiful if slightly insincere smile – alien meet-and-greets were the reserve of those on Voyager sporting command red, rather than engineering gold. No matter how complex a ship's warp drive or main computer became one was never required to "break the ice" or ask inane questions for no reason other than to make either feel welcome.

So long as he kept the hull intact Neelix could do whatever he liked with deck two and invite whoever he wanted, as far as B'Elanna was concerned. Still it didn't pay to be rude for the sake of rudeness, "I don't think I've met your species before ..."

Seven shook her head, as the smile on the stranger's face faltered for a moment. "Species 500."

"I'm Vidiian," Sari clarified. Torres fought the urge to step back at the revelation, her hands balling to fists as memories of her time with the Vidiian Solidarity – time spent imprisoned for invasive medical procedures up to and including non-consensual cloning – flooded her consciousness; memories of being separated into her component parts, Human and Klingon, like some distillation tower cracking oil to petrol and diesel.

Memories of the faces of those under her command and the memory of one face being carved from its owner, transplanted like one might chose to style their hair differently. Taken from the man who had borne it for decades and who had made family and friends with it, in a horrific attempt to impress her.

"You look too pretty to be Vidiian," B'Elanna almost snarled. "Smell too clean-"

"Apparently the Think Tank's claim to have cured the phage was correct," Seven interrupted. "They are rebuilding their civilisation."

Scoffing, Torres felt a wave of nausea twist her gut one hundred and eighty degrees. "Are they going to bring back all the people they harvested?"

Not bothering to wait for the answer – if there was one at all to be had – B'Elanna turned on her heels. "I've got to be on-court in ten," She muttered, snatching up the bag left at the doorway and disappearing out of sight. Seven's ocular implant receded to match the eyebrow opposite, eventually. "I apologise for Lieutenant Torres' behaviour ..."

Sarri shrugged, lowering herself down to a bench. "We'll never change the past – what's done is done and while nothing in our Solidarity or outside of it will change that, we can still change the future. Considering what your ship endured before we found our freedom from the phage, your Lieutenant is quite right to feel the way she feels … It is better to be passionate than empty of your feeling."

Green eyes fixed themselves on cobalt blue and Seven could not miss the insinuation the words carried. "Passion without perfection will get you killed. Perfection without passion is joyless."

Seven of Nine and Annika Hansen, utterly separate but hopelessly entangled, shared a single nod. On this alone they could only agree.

…

* * *

…

"I do not know you well, Klingon," The gravelly voice boomed in mocking. "Does your species like spending all of its time on their backs?"

Vidiians be damned, former Borg drones be damned and Parises Squares be damned; the burden of command responsibility and personal responsibility be doubly damned. B'Elanna's veins were so distended with the stuff of anger that there seemed precious little room for blood – how did the opportunity to blow off a little stream on shore leave become some ship-wide exercise in prestige and morale?

Torres hadn't asked for the mission, hell the entire point in this had been to get away from the bars pinned to her collar for up to twenty two hours a day, seven days a week. The chance to kick-off and unwind with good, honest sweating, running and kicking replaced with the burden of supporting the hopes and dreams of one hundred and forty six other people. And one hologram.

What had started as a chance to pick up a little personal satisfaction and honour, necessitating the recruitment of Seven to even the odds, had ended up becoming a harsh lesson in the complexities of personal command. Picking a team and motivating them for a competition was no different to selecting an engineering detail and motivating them, except empathy for the latter was a formality.

When one of B'Elanna's engineers failed to make the grade, sometimes through no fault of their own, it was a simple matter to palm it off to Chakotay. If the problem were truly serious to the point of affecting ship's business, Janeway was always available. This was not avoiding the issue, or ducking out – the system of starship command encouraged department heads to make use of the chain.

In a situation of her own making, set in motion the moment she had hijacked Vorik's suggestion to make it her own, B'Elanna had made herself the final point of call and the final court of appeal. Her single-minded desire and stubbornness meant there was no other link in the chain. Everything rested on her shoulders.

Often the outcast, the recluse, the loner, she had blindly orchestrated a situation whereby another person's peace of mind came under her jurisdiction.

The Hirogen hefted his ion hammer up from the court floor and across his shoulder effortlessly, as if packing his possessions in a napkin dangling from the end of a stick. His face produced a small smile between the scars and gnarled flesh, arm spread wide as if inviting. "If you are struggling I could use a smaller hammer ..."

B'Elanna clambered back up to her feet with a grunt, ignoring the pain radiating from her shoulder's attempts to prove the strength of bone over metal alloy and failing. Mallet held in a single arm, almost forgotten and using her free hand to push off from the court floor, the Klingon burst forwards to take the old alien off his feet and drive the air he used to mock her from his lungs.

The Hirogen calmly faced the on-rushing threat, with little more reaction than to bend his knees slightly as if he intended to absorb the entirety of the blow. Wielding the ion mallet is if some two-handed club held across her chest, B'Elanna turned her head away to spare it the brunt of the impact.

Wielding his rather as if an axe, the Hirogen swung the hammer downwards with tremendous force, so that the head latched against the shaft of B'Elanna's own mallet on its irresistible path downwards. Grasping as tightly as she could – an instinctive reaction to stop the hammer being prised from her fingers – the engineer merely helped the Hirogen, propelling her underneath the swing of his arm and up into the air.

Heaving, shuddering coughs racked B'Elanna's chest as every last molecule of air was driven from her lungs by the impact of the court's floor against her back. Rolling over onto her stomach, slick forehead pressed against the decking as she struggled to suck in the oxygen needed to sustain consciousness, the Hirogen lowered himself to his knees, chin perched on the end of his upturned mallet.

"I have hunted many prey Klingon," He mused. "I have hunted prey over which I enjoy every conceivable advantage. I had superior speed, superior strength and superior cunning. I knew their limitations while they did not know anything of mine and yet, occasionally, I was defeated. Occasionally my hunt was lost because they recognised not my limitations, but their own.

The Hirogen's his boot into B'Elanna's ion mallet as she tried to use it to sweep the hunter from his feet, snapping the weighted end from the shaft in a splinter of metal and plastic and catapulting the broken handle from the engineer's weakened grasp.

"Realising what they could not do gave them strength to plan," He continued. "Being aware of what might await them made them cautious, careful.

"I have hunted many terrible beasts which could rip the limbs from the body and scatter your blood to paint the side of a mountain. These predators feared no-one because in the blindness of their rage they did not appreciate fear. Being fearful has no use but having no desire to die is a powerful tool to count as your ally. These creatures died by my hand because they had no plan – they had no consideration. They rushed headlong into battle, and they were run through on the end of my blade for it."

The hunter dropped his mallet to the floor with a thud. "If you fight like you did today in your qualification match, you will knock your opponent down once. You will knock him down once in surprise and then after, he will run you through. He will leave you on your back like this, again, because he will know that you only know how to rage."

The Hirogen tapped the red mark drawn across the top of his fabric hood. "Good fight, Klingon."

"Yeah, yeah ..." Torres mumbled, squeezing her eyes open and shut.

Hirogen be damned too.

…

_

* * *

_

…

As commanding officer of the U.S.S. Voyager, Kathryn Janeway naturally considered the ship to be an extension of herself in that she had a sacred duty to protect – to walk each of the fifteen decks without ever forgetting the rest of the ship lying ahead or behind, as a mother might walk through her home conscious of her children playing in the next room or downstairs.

Despite the carnival-like atmosphere surrounding, Janeway found a moment to slip effortlessly back into her rank. "Naomi Wildeman did this?"

Chakotay offered a grin and a shrug of his shoulders, as he sipped from one of the two champagne glasses he held in his hands. "She made a good point; you can't have an awards ceremony without the great seal of the United Federation of Planets … She painted one."

"She painted one on the bulkhead, Commander," Kathryn half-sighed, the slightest flicker of a smile threatening to break through her command mask and sabotage the mock-seriousness. "I'm holding you personally responsible for this and as for Miss Wildeman, I may have to see about a reprimand."

Handing off one of the glasses to his captain, Chakotay did his best to look solemn. "I accept full responsibility."

"The stars look perfect," Kathryn admitted. Her first officer nodded thoughtfully, sipping the last of his champagne. "We did our best."

"She did her best," He quickly corrected, the solemn look holding out underneath the half-accusatory, half-disbelieving frown. The chirruping commbadge adorning the lapel of his dress uniform provided a welcome distraction, nonetheless. "Chakotay here."

"The Calavene have arrived," A disembodied voice announced. "They should be with you shortly."

Closing the link with a tap of his palm, Chakotay cocked his head to the side in contemplation. "Do you think they'll be Malon butter-pastries?"

…

* * *

…

"She totally fooled him!" Tom enthused, throwing his arms out to illustrate his point to the half-dozen crewmen gathered in Sickbay under a dubious list of pseudo-illnesses which excused them from waiting with the bulk of the ship in the Mess Hall. "This hulking great Kazon shoulder-barges B'Elanna, and she goes down clutching her arm ..."

Tom clamped a hand against his elbow, stooping over for dramatic effect. "He leans in and starts spouting off about "The best the Federation has to offer" and laughing his head off. I'm down about eight weeks worth of replicator rations and looking at Leola Root stew until March when Lanna swings her ion mallet around in one hand and sweeps the bozo clean off his feet!"

Swinging his arms in something more suited to a practice golf swing, a wide grin split Paris' features. "He hits the court and Lanna gets up to hit the marker. The Kazon's knocked for six – the engine's running but there's nobody behind the wheel ..."

"Mister Paris!" an irritated voice called out over the exciting tale. "This is a sickbay, not an amphitheatre. I'm trying to conduct a physical here. Either treat your supposed patients or get out of here and wait with the rest of the crew."

"No problem Doc!" He chorused, marking one and only time the oft-unwilling medic had picked up a tricorder with a smile on his face. Unfolding the clamshell and leaving the device to auto-scan, he resumed his dramatic storytelling. "So the Kazon's out of ideas, but he can just about see Lanna disappearing over him so he reaches out and just grabs hold of her leg. I expected her to lose it there – who wouldn't dragging three hundred plus pounds across an entire Squares court."

"You'll live," Paris surmised with a wink, pointing the tricorder at the next "patient". "She drags him sixty yards to hit the marker and take the title. I've never seen that kind of patience … And I'm dining like the Kings of old on it!"

"Leola Root stew till May," Harry whined, folding his arms across his chest. "I can't believe I lost!"

"Elementary mistake my dear Mister Kim," Tom explained with a slap on the ensign's back. "You broke one of the fundamental rules of the galaxy : Never underestimate a Vulcan."

Harry's frown deepened, "I didn't underestimate Tuvok … He's still only got one brain and when it comes to chess I figured the more hemispheres the better. His opponent had a second Neo-cortex and Cerebellum! four extra lobes!"

"Size isn't everything, Harry ..." Tom winked, eliciting a groan from a few surrounding crewmen.

…

* * *

…

With the benefit of a forcefield pressed into temporary service as a privacy screen by adjusting its opaqueness, The Doctor consulted his tricorder and nodded at the results. Closing the clamshell and replacing the instrument on the tray, he clasped his hands together and offered a wide smile to both women sitting atop the central biobed.

"Some bumps and bruises and in the Lieutenant's case a black eye to boast about, but nothing a few days of rest and a good night's sleep – or regeneration – won't put right I'm glad to see there's no severed limbs for me to reattach. It's hard to wager against Klingon redundant systems and Borg nanoprobes ..."

"If I approved of that sort of thing," The EMH added, his eyes narrowing in the direction of his trusty medic who was deep inside an exciting description of Vorik's spectacular victory. "Quite apart from the scientific curiosity of it all, it's quite spectacular the effect this competition and your victories have had on the ship ..."

Seven of Nine flexed her mesh-encased fingers, the numbing effects of the procedure to re-align the brachial clamp, which supplied power and fine motor-control to the entire arm, slowly diminishing. "Doctor?"

"I'm one of the most sophisticated developments in civilised medicine," He said without any of the pride or arrogance one might expect from such a sweeping statement. "Sickbay is filled with drugs, diagnostic systems and instruments capable of defeating a huge number of diseases and treating anything from a broken ankle to replacing a heart or an arm ... But there's nothing here that can make someone get out of bed a little earlier.

"There's nothing here that can make someone whistle as they work. I don't have anything in my programming that can cheer up an entire starship. That's not for medicine or holograms. That's good old-fashioned hope."

"The Lieutenant has put her life on the line for the ship countless times as have you, Seven, but the crew had no choice in the matter. They put their faith in you professionally. This time is different – these games are different and the crew trusted in you personally. You were the champions of one hundred and forty six people. And one hologram."

Snatching his Mobile Emitter from its charging pad, The Doctor nodded towards the door. "When you're ready we'll all see you in the Mess Hall. Take my advice and avoid the Malon butter-pastries ..."

The ship's CMO exited the privacy screen and set about ushering the small crowd still deeply engrossed in Tom's stories out of sickbay and towards deck two. A silence hung in the air – comfortable and reassuring rather than awkward, broken only by the annihilation of Deuterium and Anti-Deuterium ten decks below.

B'Elanna lolled her head to the side, stretching the sore muscles. Seven remained engrossed in whatever diagnostic was on-going in The Doctor's office, a sufficient distance away to be a jumble of blue and yellow to anyone without the benefit of an ocular implant.

"When did you start channelling Kahlass?" B'Elanna asked finally, her eyes finding blue counterparts. "You tore into that Malon like your life depended on it. Again. Put a good few Klingon battle simulations on the holodeck to shame."

The blonde hesitated for a moment, her lips opening slowly. "Would you like me to be honest?"

A wistful, tired smile crossed the Klingon's face, "Do you even have to ask?"

Seven nodded, returning her eyes to the office ahead. "Sari'Pal said perfection without passion was joyless – that it was mechanical and automatic. I did not fight Sari in the same way I fought to escape Penk."

"I wouldn't expect you to," B'Elanna shrugged. "These games are hardly life or death."

Seven shook her head, folding her hands loosely into her lap. "You do not understand – when I fought against Penk, I fought as one. My dichotomy – Borg and Humanity worked as one and I was a whole person, for a while. Since then, until now, I could not be that whole person again. I feared the weakness it would bring …"

Blue eyes forgot the screen ahead and looked for their opposite number. "I could not embrace my humanity and go back to the Cargo Bay like a tool to its box. I could not accept my implants and pretend that I am like Lieutenant Paris or Mister Kim."

B'Elanna nodded, maintaining the eye contact. "What changed?"

"Sari helped me to understand that I was attempting the impossible. I was attempting to accept myself within my own broken understanding. She helped me to understand that I could not do it on my own."

The most irrational pang of jealousy spiked upwards from B'Elanna's gut, almost eliciting a wince. The mention of the Vidiian still made the Klingon's flesh pucker in goosebumps, perhaps unfairly but it was a prejudice born of bitter experience and suffering. Seven had only known her a few short days – surely they could be no more than the very tenuous of friends?

Had the Hirogen's words – as B'Elanna had lain on the floor of the Parises Squares court, utterly spent – ever been more truthful than this moment? As Seven talked of a missing element, some missing part of herself she could not hope to find inside, the parallel was so overwhelming as to almost be easier to believe that it had been written in a holonovel, rather than from the heart.

What was passion without perfection? What was every drop of blood her two hearts could carry worth, without a direction? Lying face-down on the court, almost entirely focused on the mere act of drawing a breath as she grudgingly listened to the Hirogen, her mind's eye journeyed for the epitome of order, of structure and definition – of perfection.

She stood tall and lean, the touch of silver across featured framed in golden yellow.

Passion without perfection was self-destructive, rudderless, meaningless.

"Will you see her again?" B'Elanna croaked, throat uncharacteristically dry. Seven's ocular implant rose, brow furrowing slightly as she cocked her head to the side. "I see no reason to do so – Voyager will not be present for the next games. She helped me to understand what I require, but she cannot help me find it."

Seven hesitated for a moment, "You can help me find it, B'Elanna ..."

"What do you need?" The Chief Engineer muttered, cheeks flushing as she tried unsuccessfully to look away and at least compose herself. Two hearts began to compete with each other to see which one could break free of the prison of her chest first.

"I require passion ..." The blonde began, certain of it. "I think that I need you."

Finally glancing down at her boots kicking the air as if she were back on Kessik IV with a sweetheart, B'Elanna sucked in a lungful of air. "I needed something to control my temper. I needed something to channel myself and give me a direction. I needed someone to catch me before I hit every brick wall in front … I needed perfection."

"I'm just me," Torres sighed, shrugging. "I like to read technical manuals and I consider six hours in bed a lie-in. I know my way around a warp drive and not much else and I really, really hate the way Harry smiles when he's being insulted. A lot of things annoy me ..."

B'Elanna glanced up at the sickbay's ceiling. "You annoy me … In so many ways, so many times."

Seven's eyes followed B'Elanna's to the bulkhead, and then back down to the caramel features wrestling with the absurdity of it all. Considering for a moment, the taller woman leaned over and pressed her lips against their opposites.

The kiss was harder than Seven had intended and softer than B'Elanna had expected it to be. Her eyes rolled closed, consciousness surrendering to instinct as she held her head still, nostrils flaring with the close quarters of it all. Moments turned to minutes with lips still pressed together, until the engineer sensed that Seven had perhaps run out of ideas.

Easing back and breaking the contact, B'Elanna's eyes opened to find Seven's still closed. The Klingon cocked her head to the side, watching the woman opposite until eventually, cobalt orbs rejoined the seeing world. "Was that annoying?"

B'Elanna shook her head, a smile playing across her lips. "Forgetting the complexities of … Well … me and you, and whether the four quadrants of the galaxy are ready for a force like us, think you're up to being my perfection?"

Seven tipped her chin up as if considering a menu rather than a life-defining choice. "If you will be my passion and surrender control of Main Engineering to me."

B'Elanna screwed her face up, "No deal."

"Then passion is sufficient," The blonde nodded. "Passion and perfection."

Leaning her head against an alabaster shoulder and breathing deeply, B'Elanna nodded. "Passion and perfection."

...

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
